


Snake in the Grass

by maddersahatter



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: F/M, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 84,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddersahatter/pseuds/maddersahatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this sequel to Run for their Lives Sam Leaps into a teenage gang in San Francisco, where he is forced to risk his very soul to prevent the worst original outcome he has yet encountered. Story 4 of 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I must stress that this story deals with underage rape and readers may well find it upsetting.  
> It is graphic in nature and doesn't shy away from adult themes.  
> Please heed the warning and don't read if you may find it too disturbing or upsetting.  
> It is not intended to do anything but condemn the act of rape.

 

**Prologue**

"Gushie" was having a conniption fit.

Admiral Calavicci had warned him that unusual things happened when Sam Leaped, but nothing could have prepared David Beckett for what was happening now. His first Leap-in, and what a baptism!

"Admiral! Dr Beeks! Anybody!"

Al, Verbena, Sammi-Jo, Donna and a half-dozen others burst through the door within seconds of each other, convinced Sam was either Home or Dead, or both.

Twenty expectant eyes focused on the new boy.

"What is it? What's happened?" asked Al urgently.

David swallowed hard.

"Wh- what do I do?" he queried. "How, uh, what, I mean…" he stammered.

" **What?**  Spit it out, man." roared the Rear Admiral, instantly forgetting all his vows to break the kid in gently. "I take it Sam's Leaped-in?"

"Y-yes." David nodded vigorously. Dr. Beckett had Leaped-in all right. Way in. You could even say well over his head.

"Then if  _you're_ not going to tell me what's going on, I guess I'll go have a chat with our new visitor." Al headed for the Waiting Room.

"I – I w-wouldn't open that door if I were you." David found both his voice and his motor skills and moved forward purposefully to bar Al's way.

Al turned to glare at him. He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of hiring this greenhorn.

"Admiral, you  _can't_ go into the Waiting Room. Ziggy has flooded it!"

 

**Somewhere in the Atlantic**

Sam had eventually realized his azure environment was not the limbo of transit between Leaps, but was in fact a clear blue sea. He'd Leaped in mid-ocean like this once before, and remembered panic and an explosion, but this time he felt instantly calm.

He was swimming underwater and soon became aware that he was not alone. He was part of a group, swimming close together some way beneath the surface.

Very shortly after that his ungoggled eyes realized that there was something odd about his companions. They were all in grey wet suits – no, wait a minute – they weren't wet suits at all. His swimming partners were not even human – they were dolphins.

 _Tursiops truncatus truncatus_.

He was swimming right in the middle of a school of Atlantic Bottlenose dolphins!

They were magnificent.

So beautiful - so graceful.

And close enough to reach out and touch.

It was so peaceful, so serene and wonderful; he wished the experience could last forever. Yet he supposed his air supply would be exhausted all too soon.

Looking down for the first time at his own appearance to check his gauges, he immediately became conscious that he was not wearing any breathing apparatus. This discovery intrigued him, yet he was not at all alarmed by it. He felt no discomfort, though he couldn't recall, now he thought about it, having drawn breath since his Leap-in. Closer examination of his appearance showed him to be not only without scuba gear, but also without anything else at all. He was stark naked. He had not a stitch on.

Next he was aware that the dolphins were conversing in clicks and whistles, yet he knew what they were saying. He finally comprehended why his blood was still so oxygen rich after long submersion. Had there been a mirror to check in, he was sure he'd have seen flippers where his arms should be. His consciousness was currently residing in the blubber of a sea dwelling mammal.

He, too, was a Bottlenose dolphin!

"Ohhhhh, boyohboyohboyohboyoh **boy!** " he emitted, in one long sonic squeak.

 

**QLHQ**

Disbelievingly, Al climbed to the Observation deck, which discreetly overlooked the Waiting Room through a two-way mirror, and contained all manner of high-tech monitoring equipment. Sure enough, the holding cell was two-thirds filled with water.

"How do we sedate a distressed dolphin?" asked Beeks, who'd followed close upon his heels and now stared incredulously at the creature's aura.

Swimming in tight circles within was a beautiful, sleek Bottle-nosed dolphin - in Sam's body - crying plaintively to its lost companions.

"Beats the hell outa me," replied the Observer with a shrug, "but that's," he pointed into the 'tank' below, "your problem. I think  **I'd** better check in on Sam."

Al remembered how Sam had reacted to finding out he was a chimp ( _and_  having to wear a diaper!). He could just imagine how his friend was going to feel about this one. Mind you, at least the diet would be better. In fact, Sam  _liked_ sushi, so raw fish would be a banquet compared to caterpillar protein.

 

**Somewhere in the Atlantic**

And so it was with this comforting thought that Al announced his presence a few moments later. He fairly gloated about it as he pretended to tread water, much to Sam's irritation, especially since he had only the vaguest recollection of that 'primitive' Leap.

Al was not in the least chastened by Sam's reproving looks. With a toss of his head he turned to the com-link.

"This one's a doddle, Sam," he assured the Leaper, though his friend's expression suggested he'd heard this empty promise before.

"No, really. One of these dolphins is about to give birth. Ziggy puts it a clear 98.4 percent that you're here to play midwife and see the little nipper takes his first breath. Originally, he didn't make it. Drowned."

Sam had wondered why he was so far from his normal province. He had assumed he was to be one of those fabled creatures that saved a drowning sailor or some such. This was a long way from his regular missions, yet looking at his gentle companions; it seemed a worthy enough goal in and of itself.

In any event, he could never have stood – or even swum – idly by and watch any of God's creatures suffer if there was even the slimmest chance of his being able to prevent it. And whilst gynecology was not his specialty, he was quietly confident that he could provide the necessary assistance in this delivery.

He would soon find out. He wasn't really sure whether he'd heard and understood an auditory signal, or whether it was just a shared consciousness he'd patched into, but all at once he sensed the birth was imminent. He and the other females circled the mother, quietly encouraging with squeaks and nudges.

The calf emerged tail-first. He was one-third his mother's length, and Sam estimated him to be around 15 percent of her weight. As they watched the umbilical cord break spontaneously, Al turned slightly green. He wasn't comfortable with what he called "yucky stuff".

Sam took up his position on the left of the newborn, the mother flanking him on the right. Together they gently pushed the calf toward the surface with their snouts. Sam let instinct and the dolphin's powerful muscles guide him through what seemed a never-ending ascent, until at last they broke the surface and the young dolphin got his first taste of cool fresh air.

"Congratulations, buddy. You just became an aunty!" snorted Al.

Sam didn't care. He felt exhilarated. He swam around the newborn, faster and faster, then dove down deep again, and turned, hurtling back upward, higher and higher, 'til he leapt out of the water altogether, arching majestically as if passing through some invisible hoop. The fixed smile on his dolphin face reflected his delight. Delight not just in a job well done, but also in the feeling of freedom and power and companionship and a whole flood of other emotions he couldn't put names to. He wanted to freeze time and have the moment last forever. He decided there and then that if re-incarnation ever proved to be a reality, he wanted to - he aspired to - come back as a dolphin.

All too soon the force of gravity sucked him back down through the gentle waves, and in the moment he broke the surface of the ocean, Sam Leaped.


	2. One

Sam didn't realize at once. The sparkle of blue haze which accompanied every Leap seemed no more than sunlight on water, and was just as fleeting. And what was more, his head was still submerged.

There, however, the similarity ended abruptly.

For in stark contrast to the crystal clear Atlantic, this water was murky and brackish, and Sam most certainly could not breathe nor hold his breath here. He struggled not to swallow the vile water as he fought to find a way out. Something was holding him down. There was a pressure on the back of his head, his neck and shoulders. His hands were being held at arms length behind him.

Just when he felt his lungs would burst, the pressure eased and he bobbed up like a cork, coughing and spluttering and fighting for breath. But before he'd fully caught it, the pressure was reapplied, forcing his head back down into the smelly, slimy tank his blurry eyes had barely made out. In the split-second before his dunking, he managed to suck in and hold a deep breath, but it didn't last nearly long enough.

What on Earth had he leapt into now?

Why was his new host being tortured so?

And by whom?

He got a clue the next time he bobbed up. Several voices were shouting at him, urging him to do something in words that were at once both strange and yet somehow familiar. Another dunking into the stagnant mire banished all thought but surviving 'til the next breath, which seemed even longer in coming. He had to find a way to end this torment before  _it_ ended  _him_. A red mist danced and swirled before his eyes as he emerged once more from the depths.

The same voices again.

The same imperative: "Apologize."

Only that wasn't precisely the expression used. " _Oayamari nasaimase_." What language was this? All at once it came to him. Japanese! His assailants were speaking Japanese!

" _Oya, oto konokito_!" he panted. "Oh, boy!"

Down he went again, pushed roughly from behind so that he almost knocked himself out on the jagged lip of the rusty metal tank. These bullies meant business. They would not give up until he gave them what they wanted. Which appeared to be an apology.

How had he offended these people? He had no idea. Nor did he know if they'd deserved whatever he'd done or said. He  _did_  know that there were twenty different ways to say sorry in Japanese, depending on the level of guilt. He had no clue as to what was appropriate, but he dared to hazard a guess that ' _sumimasen_ ' wouldn't do – the type of apology to be used if you bumped into someone inadvertently, for example. He hardly thought it likely that such a minor accident would provoke so savage a retribution, even among such proud people.

Sam decided there was only one safe course of action. In his ignorance of his alleged crime, he would offer the humblest and most sincere of all Japanese apologies – literally "I have no excuse" in the hope that it would placate his attackers and end his suffering. He knew he couldn't take much more of this punishment.

Next time he was let up, he gasped and cried out, " _M-moshiwake-gozaimasen, moshiwake-gozaimasen_!"

To his immense relief, the pressure eased and he was allowed to straighten up, though his hands were still held to prevent escape.

The leader of the group moved around into his line of blurred vision as he shook the foul water from his hair, choking and spluttering to clear the damp from his lungs and the awful taste from his mouth. As Sam's eyes cleared he could see - he blinked, disbelievingly, - for he was confronted, not by the scar-faced villain of his imaginings, not by a mustachioed Mafioso, but by a lad of no more than seventeen.  **This** was the thug he'd been so afraid of? Sam drew himself up to his full height to face his apparent enemy, flexing his muscles beneath the iron grip of his human handcuffs.

The boy's stern expression suddenly melted into a smile, then a laugh, which was echoed by the others – a gang of some seven youths, each one Asian, in his teens, and wearing a purple bandana on his head. The tallest lad slapped Sam almost playfully on the shoulder and pronounced " _Kakkoii_ ," then again in English, "Cool!"

He was impressed. Sam had chosen his words wisely.

"I like you, kid. You're okay." The boy told Sam. "I'm gonna let you Jump-in." He nodded to his cronies, who loosed their grip, whilst the others moved in to surround Sam, in a tight circle. The time traveler was too befuddled to take advantage of the release. Hostility and attempted murder had turned to jocularity and even approbation, in little more than a heartbeat. Then this latest - he was to be  _allowe_ d to jump in.

In where? The vast expanse of water which he now saw a short distance away?

He cast around to get his bearings. They were in a run-down ramshackle industrial area of some sort – dilapidated warehouses with broken windows, paint peeling on faded company signs, dust and grime everywhere. Yet, beyond the rusty fence he could make out the hustle and bustle of a thriving business environment and a teeming metropolis. Finally, he focused in the direction of the water, and followed it almost to the horizon, where he recognized with a shock a landmark that left him no possible doubt as to his current location.

It was the Golden Gate Bridge!

So, he was in San Francisco, not the Far East.

Okay, but why? Not to go for a friendly swim, that much was for sure. With trepidation evident in his strained voice he sought clarification.

"J-Jump in?"

"That's what you want, isn't it? To join the Cobras?"

A gang initiation!

Quite frankly, that was just about the  _last_  thing Sam wanted. Steady, dependable, studious Dr Beckett had never believed in frivolous fraternities, gung-ho gangs and other forms of juvenile hi-jinks, and he didn't intend to start subscribing now, thank you very much. And if that made him a mega nerd, he couldn't have cared less.

But without Al there to advise him, he daren't refuse. The timing suggested that perhaps he needed to be in, in order to complete his secret mission. So, once again he prepared to infiltrate behind enemy lines.

He'd been a Cobra before, he recalled unhappily, and hoped that this time he wouldn't have to ride a motorbike. Or face a Mad Dog. With hindsight, he later wished those things were all he'd be called on to accomplish, and been thankful to have been let off so lightly.

"What d-do I have to do?" he asked, his voice still husky from the near drowning.

"Do?" the boy standing next to the gang leader echoed, smiling wickedly, a hint of venom in his tone. "Oh,  _you_  don't have to  _do_ anything - Just stay on your feet for the next five or ten minutes. The rest of us will be doing all the  _hard_  work, won't we boys?"

Cruel, mocking laughter surrounded him. Only one boy, just in front and to his right, winked at him reassuringly.

"You'll be fine, Kaz," he whispered. "We don't use weapons or nothing, only fists and feet. Remember what I told you; it's just a little beating. You don't fight back and don't cry for mercy and before you know it, you'll be a Cobra, like me!"

The boy was fourteen at most, short and slight of build, wiry. He looked harmless, but his affinity with this gang meant he'd need watching closely. "Kaz" appeared to be his friend, yet here he was cheerfully planning to set upon him and likely knock seven bells out of him, and Sam was expected to be grateful! The more he heard, the less he liked the idea of being a Cobra.

Where was Al? He  _really_  wanted to be told he didn't have to do this. Yet experience told him the easy path was seldom the right one.

" _Yoi_ , Cobras?" enquired the Leader. He didn't ask Sam if  _he_  was ready. How do you prepare yourself to submit voluntarily to a mugging? As soon as the Jump-in had been granted they'd begun to divest themselves of shoes and socks, which were used now to mark the edge of the arena.

" _Yoi_ , your Majesty," chorused the Cobras, bowing formally in traditional samurai manner, arms straight, and hands by their sides.

The King Cobra turned to his left and addressed the wiry boy.

"Yasuo, as our newest member, and his friend," here he indicated Sam, "you have the honor of striking the first blow. Don't hold back."

With an authoritative gesture, he commanded, " _Hajime_."

Yasuo stepped up, looking as if he were about to present Sam with a gold medal. Sam steeled himself not to flinch, as his 'friend' bestowed upon him a fierce body blow to the stomach. For a young lad, he packed quite a punch. Sam exhaled vehemently, winded but unbowed.

"Very good," conceded the King. "Next."

This lad was far stockier, though not much older than the first. He drew back his fist and struck Sam full in the face – another kid who certainly wasn't playing at it. Sam's head recoiled from the blow, but he stood his ground.

"Excellent," proclaimed 'his majesty', "you take it well. Next."

The third boy was tall, almost as tall as the King Cobra himself. He moved in close to Sam and punched him hard and low. Sam bent over slightly, and his eyes moistened, but he kept his balance.

So it was for the fourth, fifth and sixth – each dealt him a swift punch to the torso, which he absorbed with barely a grunt. He may not be enjoying it, but he could take it. No sweat.

Only number seven made him sweat. He appeared to be Crown Prince, second in command and in seniority. At sixteen he was well developed, muscular, and his face was already battle-scarred. His eyes blazed maliciously. As he attacked, he feigned a punch, then sidestepped and swung around, kicking Sam viciously in the side. Sam very nearly crumpled over, but steadied himself at the last second and resisted the urge to clutch his aching side. The thug looked disappointed, and then glared at Sam with pure hatred.

Now it was the King's turn. Sam swallowed; bracing himself for another brutal blow, for surely the Leader would have to outdo his lieutenant? Instead, he looked at his hands as if deciding whether or not to sully them on a mere commoner. He wore a gold signet ring on the left little finger, engraved with a purple cobra.

Sam suddenly recalled a similar ring drawing blood on his cheek. Another beating. One he had barely survived. He drew in a sharp breath.

'Focus' he told himself. He tried to work out how long this had taken so far. How many blows each would fit in within the allotted ten minutes, and how many of the boys were capable of causing any real damage. Only three, he decided – the King, his number two, and the tall lad. If the leader decided to step back and merely watch the spectacle, it shouldn't be too bad.

Unfortunately, he was not to be so lucky. King Cobra looked up from his scrutiny and made a circling gesture with his hand, encompassing the whole group.

"Now, the games can really begin," he announced, and dropped his arm in Caesarean command.

All at once the entire gang set upon Sam, striking from all sides. It was all he could do not to collapse in a heap under the sheer weight of the onslaught.

Fists and feet flew at him from all directions, landing blow after blow on his head, limbs and body, leaving him bruised and battered. Yet still somehow he stood his ground. The natural urge to fight back, to defend himself, grew stronger as the minutes passed, a never-ending blur. Finally, he felt he could take no more. Though it was humiliating to admit that a grown man, normally fit and strong, was being bested by a bunch of teenagers, he was most definitely swaying. He wanted to curl up in a ball on the ground and envelop himself in some protective shield, to deny them their target. He wanted to put out his arms defensively to block the incoming blows – forearm guarding blocks; middle inners against the punches; lower outers to counter the kicks. Yet these moves could be misconstrued as hostile, and then he'd have suffered in vain.

Then miraculously, just as he was about to crumple in an undignified heap and holler 'Uncle', the King Cobra called a halt to the trouncing with another grand gesture.

"Enough!"

Ever obedient, the gang ceased hostilities immediately, and instead raised Sam in triumph onto their shoulders and paraded him around, chanting, "Co-bras, Co-bras!"

He knew he should feel elated, should be full of pride and camaraderie and a sense of having achieved a long-sought goal. Instead, Sam just felt gratitude and relief that the "little beating" was over at long last, mingled with a gut-churning fear of what 'delights' awaited him as a fully-fledged member of the gang.

And with good reason.

His erstwhile assailants lowered him to the ground, with words of congratulation and hearty (rather too hearty!) slaps on the back. Then, at a signal from their leader, they formed a semi-circle behind him as he faced his new sovereign. His friend Yasuo alone stood with him, to the left and a little behind, like a squire attendant on his knight. He placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, and by a gentle pressure gave him to understand he was expected to kneel. Reluctantly, and somewhat stiffly, Sam complied.

The King Cobra stepped forward and raised his arm. Three cheers ensued for the newest recruit.

Then silence.

He held it for the longest moment before speaking. The mark of a strong leader – he had them in the palm of his hand. When he spoke, it was softly, yet his voice carried easily to the furthest acolyte. A voice that compelled one to listen and take note.

"My fellow Cobras," he began unhurriedly, sweeping his arm majestically to encompass them all, and making brief but significant eye contact with each in turn. Here was a clever and charismatic commander. His mere presence kept them aware of his superiority, and the need to curry his favor else incur his wrath, yet there were just enough of the small touches of familiarity to make even the lowliest feel important, a valued member of the group. These kids would follow him anywhere, and do anything he asked of them, even gladly lay down their lives for him. That made him exceedingly dangerous.

"It is with great pleasure," he continued, smiling benevolently for emphasis, "that I, Matanaru Fujiyama, King of the Cobras, ask you to welcome Kazuo Sakaguchi, who has shown himself worthy to be called a Cobra. Treat him as your brother. Share all you have with him, and be prepared to defend him with your life, against all enemies."

"We will!" came the devout chorus.

"And you, Kazuo? You will do the same for each of these, your new brothers, will you not?"

"I – I will," Sam felt compelled to affirm. It was not quite the ritual he had expected, not the long drawn-out oath he'd thought he'd have to repeat, but there was a reverence to the ceremony all the same. Especially when Fujiyama signaled to Sam's second, Yasuo, who bowed and left the arena.

He returned bearing something resembling a dark cushion in front of him, which he brought before the King and, kneeling on one leg, offered up in homage.

The leader took something shiny from atop the bundle and held it high, nodding to Yasuo as he did so. The boy rose and turned now to present the "cushion" to Sam. At close quarters he could see that it was, in fact, a neatly folded black leather jacket, such as each of his companions was wearing. Emblazoned on the back, naturally, was a magnificently embroidered purple and gold Cobra, coiled like a rope, its head rising menacingly from the center, poised to strike. Beneath the beast, the word 'Cobras' was marked out in silver star shaped studs. Sam had to admit it was a stunning uniform, which many young lads would aspire to own. Yasuo helped him to open it out and put it on, pulling a purple bandanna from the pocket, which he tied on his friend's head, then told him he should hold out his hands in supplication, his head lowered. As he did so, his liege bestowed upon Sam the small silver object, which was cold and hard in his upturned palms. Sam was horrified to realize that it was a flick knife, but still he thanked his benefactor in a voice he hoped would pass for awe. With a grand gesture, Matanaru Fujiyama bid him rise to his feet, and step back to take his rightful place with his new brethren.

It was at this point that a bright white doorway appeared, immediately behind Fujiyama, and Sam's best friend, Observer, Guide, Guru and Guardian Angel, one Admiral Albert Calavicci, stepped through both the door and the boy to stand before Sam, resplendent as ever in his far from military attire.

Today, he wore a shirt mandarin in both color and collar, patterned with fine black swirls and squiggles such as may have been created by a spider drunk on the ink into which he'd fallen. His suit was black and shiny, with tangerine lapels and a fine orange stripe down the side of each leg. The ensemble was topped off with a deep orange fedora circled by a black band, set at a rakish angle.

Though inwardly startled by the close proximity of his friend's materialization, years of practice enabled Sam to mask his reaction from the assembled group. There were still times when he "looked like he'd seen a ghost", but for the most part he took it in his stride. "Expect the unexpected" was less a motto, more a way of life. On the other hand, because he was invisible to all but Sam, more or less, Al could express his emotions in the traditional grand Italian manner, and frequently did. Sam decided he'd give his invisible pal something to react to. Knowing he couldn't  _actually_  hurt his friend, which he would  _never_  want to do, he turned the knife over in his hand, so that Al could not see clearly what he had. Then, with a twist of the wrist, he flicked it open and made a quick slashing gesture, slicing neatly through his friend's holographic throat.

"Aaaargh!" shrieked Al, instinctively jumping backwards and around three foot into the air. "What d'ya wanna go and do a thing like  **that** for?" He clutched his neck then patted it nervously as if making sure it was still intact, checking his fingers for bloodstains. Even when he was sure they came away clean, he still fingered his collar repeatedly, with shaky hand, staring at Sam wide-eyed with shock.

Sam allowed himself a brief flicker of amusement, then became contrite, looking up sheepishly through half lowered eyelids. Perhaps he  _had_ gone a bit too far after all.

Before he could attempt the usual double talk that passed for communication with his spy in the crowd, Sam's new family swept him away in a flurry of excited chatter, including approbation for his handling of the knife, and further hearty slaps which made Sam wince and stumble, 'til Yasuo hooked him up under the arm and buoyed him along like the best man holding up the groom after too much booze at the stag party. Sam accepted the support with unashamed gratitude.

Now that the formalities were over, they were like any crowd of teenage boys, laughing and joking casually and planning the evening's entertainment. It all seemed innocent and natural when they invited him to go hang out at the mall with them. Sam couldn't help having his doubts, though. Thus far, he'd never Leapt-in for an innocuous night out on the town. He appeared to aim his whispered question at Yasuo, but it was to Al he looked for his answer, "Do I  **have**  to go?"

"It's not part of the initiation, Kaz," Yasuo told him, "but it'd look better if you came. You don't want to offend Fujiyama. And anyway, what's the point in joining the Cobras if you don't hang out with us?" As he said this, he let Sam go and leant over to pick up two rucksacks, obviously discarded after school when they met up with the rest of the gang. Putting one over his own shoulder, he tossed the other to Sam, who staggered back under its unexpected weight, grunting.

Meanwhile, Al was busy punching buttons on the handlink. Finally, he replied, "Zig says it's an uneventful outing, Sam. You're not here for anything major tonight, so please yourself."

'That'd be a first,' thought Sam. What he said aloud was, "If it's all the same to you," encompassing both his companions, "I'd just as soon go home and have a long hot bath – in iodine!" He winced anew at his stiff, aching body, and wiped almost dry traces of blood from his nose and lip with the back of his hand. A small, yet fairly deep cut on his forehead just along the hairline, caused by his unfortunate introduction to the water tank, oozed unnoticed into the deep purple headscarf.

"Yeah," Yasuo sniggered. "I kinda felt that way when  **I**  jumped-in," he admitted, "but it's worth it, I promise you."

Sam's tender hide felt otherwise, as did his maturity, but he held his tongue and smiled at his friend and brother Cobra, who had further pearls of wisdom to impart.

"Don't forget to take your jacket off before you get home, and keep your knife out of sight. Your  _obaa-san_  will have a fit if she knows you're in the gang."

'Which strikes me as another  _very_  good reason why I  _shouldn't_  be in it,' thought Sam, wondering why Kazuo lived with his grandmother. An orphan, he presumed. Had this contributed to the lad's current flirtation with the wild side?

Sam's instinct told him that he and Yasuo should spend as little time as possible with the gang, but experience led him to hazard a bet that avoiding them would be next to impossible.

Still, one step at a time. Perhaps he could keep his new friend out of trouble for a while, and help himself too. With a sway that was not entirely counterfeit, Sam put his hand to his head and leant towards Yasuo, who grabbed his arm to lend support, exactly as Sam had hoped.

"You okay?" Yasuo asked, with genuine concern, which was echoed by Al.

"I'll live," Sam assured them both, "but I do feel a bit dizzy and uh sick, probably all that foul water I swallowed. I don't want to spoil your fun, Yas," he lied, "but would you mind coming home with me? I don't want sobo to find me passed out on the doorstep."  _'Not to mention the fact that the city of St Francis is a mighty big place when you don't know where you live.'_

Al registered for the first time his friend's damp hair and clothing masked beneath the newly acquired uniform, and added it to his list of things to worry about. Honestly, he couldn't leave Sam alone for five minutes without the Leaper getting himself into some scrape or another. He sought advice from Ziggy's medical database, and was relieved that no permanent harm seemed to have been done. Sam still looked pretty green around the gills though, and Al surmised that he was in for an uncomfortable night. He was street-wise enough to know all about Jumping-In ceremonies, and their after effects on the 'lucky' recipients of the sugillation; the added ill effects of consuming contaminated water could only make things worse.

One of these Leaps, thought Al, Sam would get a break and arrive to find himself the pampered master of a harem, but this one was obviously going to be far more true to form, and push his friend to (and beyond) the limits.

Little did the Rear Admiral imagine quite how right his prediction would be.


	3. Two

As predicted, Kazuo's frail but nonetheless formidable grandmother had pitched a hissy fit, even though the offending uniform had been safely stashed in Yas' rucksack long before they were in sight of the homely yet humble abode.

"Look at the state of you!" was the predictable greeting when he finally got home, very late from school - with no word to stop an old woman from worrying - followed by the third degree –all in Japanese - as to how he came to be in said state. Fortunately, the two boys had concocted a cover story, with embellishments from an invisible accomplice, on the way.

Sam was suitably contrite and apologetic for having caused her anxiety. Far more so than the old lady would have expected, were the truth to be told. Maybe that was why she bought the unlikely tale of her grandson breaking up a school fight and getting caught in the crossfire, neither the perpetrator nor the bully's victim, either of which would have had her taking things further, but rather the hero. Though she scolded him roundly for putting himself in danger, there was obvious pride in her voice at his 'good deed'. Sam looked at her guiltily, then bowed his head and lowered his eyes. He hated lying to her.

The cross examination did not last long, and was inevitably replaced with much maternal fussing to be sure her ward did not need medical attention.

Sam informed her with utmost politeness, yet firmly, that there was no injury he couldn't tend to for himself, and no ill that a hot bath and an early night wouldn't see right. Once the mother hen backed off, Sam proceeded to say a hasty goodbye to Yasuo, having already asked him to call for Kaz on the way to school in the morning so that they could talk more about the Cobras (and so that Sam would not get lost!). Finally, he was alone with Al, and could find out what had brought him to San Francisco, and why it had been necessary for him to be subjected to such extremely unpleasant treatment.

Although he had assured the old lady he was fine, Sam actually felt pretty rough. While his bath was running, he fetched a glass of cooled, boiled water, hoping to finally banish the rancid taste from his mouth left by his dunking. Unfortunately, after the third mouthful, he began retching violently, and Al had been forced to stand helplessly by while Sam vomited repeatedly into Kaz's toilet.

"I can come back later for the, uh, briefing if you like, Sam." Al wasn't very good around people who were ill, and he was genuinely concerned that Sam should rest and recuperate, to gather strength for the trials that would inevitably come over the next few days.

"You alright in there?" questioned Kaz's grandmother, still in Japanese, rattling the bathroom door.

Wiping his mouth, Sam took a hesitant sip of the water to ease the rawness of his throat. Adopting a respectful tone, Sam responded likewise in Japanese, "Don't worry, sobo, no need for concern."

"Call me if you need me, Koichi," she ordered, not unkindly, using the term that told Sam he was the oldest child of the family. He had not seen evidence of siblings, but just at the moment he had more important things to occupy him.

A wave of nausea welled up inside him again, and he knelt back down over the porcelain.

"Listen, Sam," offered Al uncomfortably, "I'm gonna head back and run some things by Ziggy. We don't have a lot yet anyway, except that you're uh most likely here to, um, to keep Yas alive."

Sam shot him an alarmed look, before dipping his head once more to expel the meager remains of his lunch.

"Don't worry, Sam, you got a few days. Take it easy, kiddo. Get some rest."

With a sympathetic nod, and a self-conscious swallow, Al departed.

Sam crouched where he was a while longer, hoping the vomiting stage was finally over, but hesitant to move away in case it wasn't. He felt lousy.

Finally, he dared to get up, and stripped off, easing his aching body into the steaming bath that awaited him. He sank down into its comforting depths, and just lay there, letting the heat seep into his sore muscles and soothe away some of the pain.

Sam had taken himself off to 'his' bed right after the bath cooled, declining supper, and milk and cookies, and with apologies for neglecting the chores he'd been excused. He was bone weary, but physical discomfort and mental tension kept him tossing fitfully throughout the long night.

Al's all too brief briefing had done nothing to alleviate his troubled mind - quite the opposite - and he fretted as to what further horrors this leap would hold.

Mercifully, he was unaware at this stage that before the leap was over they would far exceed his worst imaginings…

**QLHQ**

Al's night started out as disturbed as the Leaper's.

The Observer, for his part, had snatched a hasty snack, and then settled down for some much needed rest, but historical details from Ziggy had put nightmare visions in his brain long before he got as far as sleep. He lay, staring up at the ceiling of his quarters, trying to convince himself that he could find a way to get Sam out of the mess Kaz was destined to get into, without the time-traveler ever needing to know what wasn't supposed to happen, what  **had**  originally happened. It didn't bear thinking about, and he certainly couldn't bring himself to share the scenario with someone of Sam's sensibilities.

A part of him held onto the supreme confidence that Sam was already changing history, just by being there; that things would work out fine; that they always did in the end. Yet a nagging voice inside reminded him how tough the leaps had been getting of late. How many near failures, how many near fatalities Sam had faced. Success had never been assured. There were no guarantees. And one of these days, leaping could literally be the death of Dr Beckett.

When questioned, though, Ziggy was unable to specify any significant change in the time line since Sam's arrival. However, she predicted with favorable odds that his presence would, in time, enable events to play out to the benefit of both Kazuo and Yasuo.

Al hoped to God she was right, as he rolled over and snuggled down, finally ready to submit to slumbers.

Just as he achieved somnolescence, Al was disturbed by a hesitant knock at his door. He was not expecting company, and it was unlikely - although he was thoroughly back into Tina's good books - that it would be that foxy lady about to offer him a little late night loving. So whoever it was, they were less than welcome. Nevertheless, concerned that it could have a bearing on Sam's situation, he decided he couldn't afford the indulgence of ignoring it. He roused himself regretfully and asked rather gruffly who wanted him and what was so important that it couldn't wait until morning.

"I'm sorry, (sniff) I sh-shouldn't have c-come…" The faint feminine voice was clearly holding back a floodgate of tears. "Go back (sob) to sleep, Admiral." A soft footfall indicated slow departure.

Though sorely tempted, Al called out, "Wait a minute, Sammi-Jo!"

Al sat up, and reached for his favorite bath robe, the white one with the black spots and stripes, wrapping it round himself and tying the belt loosely as he made his weary way to the door. Admitting Sam's daughter to his quarters, he ushered her into the living area, and sensing the need, scurried off to fetch coffee and Kleenex.

His return found her perched precariously on the edge of his couch, looking as if she wanted to bolt back out of the door. Her head was bowed, and she was twisting her fingers nervously. She was sniffing back tears that she didn't want the Admiral to see her shedding.

"What is it, Sammi-Jo?" Al asked her gently, putting a mug of steaming coffee into one of her hands, and a whole bunch of tissues in the other. He hated when women cried. Usually it meant they wanted something from him, something  _he_  didn't want to give, and he didn't like the way they used tears to manipulate him. Sammi-Jo wasn't like that with him as a rule, and he sensed there was something serious behind her uncharacteristic collapse of control.

She sniffed again, looked at Al, and then looked back down at her lap. "Oh, Al!" she breathed, but didn't elaborate.

"It's okay, you can tell me. We're off duty and anything you say is off the record, okay?"

She managed a wan smile, as he patted her arm, and she placed her hand over his. "It has nothing to do with work," she reassured him, dabbing at her eyes. "Well, not in that way."

"Boyfriend trouble?" hazarded Al, who in Sam's absence, and in Sammi-Jo's ignorance of her true parentage, had taken on an avuncular role with the girl, looking out for her on his best friend's behalf, even though half the time Swiss-cheesing made Sam forget that he even had a child, let alone her identity.

Sammi-Jo shook her head, her glistening eyes saying, 'If only it were as simple as a boyfriend!'

"Whatever it is, don't bottle it up, Sammi-Jo," coaxed Al. "You're among friends here, let it out - just let it all out."

That was all the encouragement the young woman needed to allow her tears to flow freely. Setting her untouched coffee cup on the table with a shaky hand, she leaned in toward Al, and allowed him to hold her close to him while she sobbed into his shoulder. He didn't push her to explain, just let her emotions pour out in a torrent of tearfulness.

Finally, her tears abated, having run their course, and she blew her nose on the last of the tissues he'd supplied.

"You feel like telling me what brought that on?" Al took her chin in his thumb and forefinger, and gently tilted her head to force eye contact.

Another sniffle; another "Oh, Al!"

"It's okay, honey, take your time," soothed Al, though throughout her outburst he'd been stifling yawn after yawn.

"I – I need to ask…" She hesitated, looking at her boss as a boss now, not as the friend he'd been for the last few long minutes.

Al knew he had a reputation for being stern and unyielding. Heck, at times it was the only way to get the job done. He didn't think Sammi-Jo was among those who confessed to being a little afraid of him, though. He smiled encouragingly.

"Anything, Sammi, just ask me. I'll do whatever I can. You know that, don't you?"

She bit her lip, and then gave a little nod, not exactly convincing in her conviction on that point.

"I know Dr Beckett has leapt again, and it isn't a good time, but uh, I need to…that is, can I um t-take some p-personal time?"

"There's  **never**  a  _good_  time, Sammi," replied Al ruefully, thinking how hard it had been to fit in his 'personal time' with Ruthie recently, "but I know you wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

In truth, it was probably about the  _worst_  time she could have chosen to ask, with the raw recruit David Beckett only just having stepped into Gushie's shoes. He had been relying on Sammi-Jo to teach the new kid the ropes. Oh well, he'd just have to make the best of it.

He looked at her, his head tilted to one side. Sammi-Jo was among the most diligent, conscientious employees they had. She worked long and she worked hard, and she never complained about the hours or the conditions or the pay, or anything except the frustration of not being able to bring Sam home.

"When did you last take a holiday anyway?" Al was suddenly business like, his brain switching to Project Administrator mode.

"I, uh, I, it was, um…"

"Doctor Fuller has not taken advantage of her statutory leave for over fourteen months, Admiral," supplied Ziggy.

"In that case, young lady," frowned Al in mock annoyance, "I  **insist**  you take some time, sort out whatever it is that needs sorting."

She looked at him with an expression of overwhelming gratitude, then spontaneously threw her arms round his neck and hugged him tight, planting a kiss on his cheek.

"Thanks, Al!" she whispered.

"You don't  _have_  to tell me, or anyone, what it's about if you don't want to," he assured her. "But remember there are people here who care about you. If you need someone to talk to, be it me or Verbena, Tina, or Donna… whoever, we're here for you. You can trust us. Okay?"

"Okay," she affirmed with another slight nod. "I may take you up on that, later. Right now, I'd uh like to go pack a few things, if that's okay?"

"Run along," Al dismissed her.

He stood up with her, and walked her back to his door, holding it open for her.

As she went through, she turned, and gave him another impulsive peck on the cheek.

"Thanks for being so understanding," she whispered. "I um, I don't know how long…"

"Take all the time you need, honey." Al reassured her, "We'll be here when you get back."

A quick squeeze of his arm, and she was off, almost running down the corridor towards the elevator that would take her to the women's quarters. Al watched her go 'til she was out of sight, then turned and went back into his room, closing the door firmly behind him. For a moment, he leant on it, and closed his eyes.

"Now  _what on Earth_  was all  **that**  about?" he wondered aloud.

"I am not at liberty to betray Dr Fuller's confidence on the matter at this time," Ziggy replied haughtily.

Al tilted his head and raised a quizzical eyebrow, then shrugged his shoulders, and headed back to bed. He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

**San Francisco**

All too soon, Morning tiptoed insidiously into Sam's borrowed boudoir, and tiny tendrils of struggling sunlight squeezed their way through grim grey clouds and thin blue curtains, to tap insistently on his eyelids, demanding that he rise and greet the day.

Grimacing and grumbling in some semblance of sleep, he rolled away, and pulled the covers tighter around him in defiance. Second to assault his senses came the unrelenting utterances of an insubstantial Admiral, likewise exhorting him to the effort of getting up. Sam's response was an incoherent mumble, and more shuffling under the sheets.

Not to be ignored, his nose was next to be nudged from the land of nod. The strong scent of herbal tea wafting in from the kitchen tantalized his nostrils, and promised him satisfying sustenance if he surfaced. Sam reluctantly began to rouse himself, though the greater part of him still clung to closed eyes and the temptation to tell the world in no uncertain terms to go away and leave him alone.

"Come on, buddy, up and at 'em!" encouraged Al, rather more volubly than was necessary in the scientist's sleep-craving opinion.

A low groan was all the reply Sam gave.

"This isn't like you, Sam; you're usually up with the lark and full of the joys of spring!" Al's jovial tone was meant to inspire, but it just grated on the leaper's nerves.

"Yeah?" he muttered. "Well, in case you've uh forgotten…" Yawning, he rubbed his neck and stretched stiffly, "…I took one… aaarh… one heck of a beating yesterday."

As he said this last, Kazuo's grandmother bustled into the room, placed a cup of hot tea on his nightstand and reached over to shake her grandson awake.

Hearing his words, her hand hesitated on his shoulder, though her touch was enough to make him pry open his eyelids.

"Wha' you say?" she queried in halting English, a frown creasing her brow.

That brought Sam to his senses faster than all the other stimuli put together. He had no wish to cause this sweet old lady further concern.

"Uh, nothing, sobo." She seemed to accept the term of endearment as easily as Sam voiced it. He hoped that Kaz's brainwaves were helping him in how the boy usually referred to his guardian.

A fresh cross examination ensued, in rapid Japanese – was he in pain? Did he need a doctor? Should she call the school and tell them he would need a day in bed?

" _Daokpki_." He tried to reassure her he was feeling okay, but she was no more convinced than his Observer. He wasn't fooling himself either.

"Let me look at you," she commanded, pulling back the covers and reaching out to unbutton his pajama jacket as if he were four or five years old.

Putting up a restraining hand, Sam sat up and performed the deed himself, knowing she would not be satisfied until she had inspected the damage for herself. He winced despite himself as he divested himself of the garment, and it did not escape the venerable veteran's attention. She tutted softly to herself as she looked him over with critical eyes.

"You stay there, don't you move," she ordered sternly, and hurried out.

"You're in for it now, Sam," warned Al, with mild amusement, though he did feel some sympathy for his friend's plight.

Sam took a sip of the tea, almost scalding his tongue. It tasted good though, and he put the cup down with a promise to himself to finish it later, when it had cooled a little. Within moments, Emiko, as Al told him she was called, was back, with a large jar of something with the approximate consistency of Vaseline, but deep red in color and with a far more pungent odor.

"Lie flat," she gestured to suggest that Sam should lie down on his back and he complied meekly.

Al played a little tune on his hand-link, and came back with the reassurance that it was only a homemade liniment, designed to ease his aching muscles. Telling him to lie still and be quiet, Emiko proceeded to plunge her hands into the smelly substance, and then to rub it expertly over Sam's trunk, from his abdomen, across his chest and up to his shoulders, then down his arms - massaging it deep into his bruised body. At first, the jelly was cold on his skin, and made him flinch, while the pressure of her hands brought fresh tenderness to his injuries. He screwed up his face and let out a low moan, writhing to avoid her prodding.

" _Shikata ga nai,"_ she told him, with a look that said he had brought it on himself, 'it cannot be helped; it must be done.'

Within moments, however, her skilled hands were working the magic elixir into his every pore and a wonderful warm feeling began to envelop him. The soreness and the aching melted away, and he found himself more relaxed than he had been all night. His soft moan turned to one of almost pleasure. She moved deftly over his torso for some time, making sure that the liniment had a chance to penetrate deep into his tissue, and manipulating his muscles with all the skill of a highly trained masseuse.

He couldn't speak openly in front of the old lady – for though she was obviously less than fluent in English, and spoke almost exclusively in Japanese, yet still her grandson having strange one sided conversations would have her fetching a doctor before he could say " _Sayonara_ " – nevertheless he could listen, and soon after she began her manipulations, he gave Al a look that made it clear the Observer should start talking.

Al had made up his mind that no useful purpose could be served by telling Sam the whole gory truth, so he concentrated on what Ziggy pronounced to be his  _primary_  aim in the Leap – keeping Yasuo alive. He told Sam that the lad had been drawn by the Cobras into a street war with a rival gang. A group of Chinese teenagers known as the Scorpions was vying with them for top rank in the territory, and it was escalating. A few nights hence, on Sunday February 29th, Leap Day, 1976, Yasuo would be caught in a shoot out and get a bullet in the gut, which would ultimately kill him three days later.

Sam struggled to keep his face from showing his shock and dismay at this dismal prediction. He was too much under 'sobo's' scrutiny. Al could tell exactly what was going through Sam's mind though, and empathized.

"Don't worry, pal, you'll stop it, I know you will." Al reassured him, whilst silently trying to reassure himself that his boy-scout buddy would defy Ziggy's other prediction and still be around to achieve this rescue.

Once she was satisfied, Emiko made Sam sit up, and moved around to repeat the process on his back, not rolling him over as she didn't want the stickiness on his front to rub off on his sheets. Sam leant forward as instructed, resting his hands on his knees, and accepted her ministrations gratefully. He had no idea what was in her patent brew, but it was certainly doing the trick. He only wished that she had a similar magic potion with which to ease his troubled mind. He was full of questions, and frustrated at being unable to voice them.

Al could well imagine what some of them were, and he was not prepared to answer them all, but he offered what he could.

"I don't think you are here to mediate, Sam, if that's where your mind is going. This gang war has being going on for a very long time by all accounts, and there is a lot of deep routed hatred and bitterness between the rival factions. The chances of you turning them into bosom buddies in the next few days aren't high enough to even register on the probability scale."

Sam's face fell still further. As a doctor, he'd treated more than his share of gang related injuries, and the senseless violence always galled him. Kids of sometimes no more than twelve with stab wounds, or bullet wounds, or strategically placed cigarette burns… he shuddered, incredulous that such things could be rife in so called civilized society. The possibility of bringing peace to these warring teens was a challenge he would relish, however remote the chances of success. How could he  _not_  try?

"Stop it, Sam," Al cautioned him, as he watched the wheels of Sam's brain processing the prospect. "Don't bite off more than you can chew, lest it choke you." As the words passed his lips, Al swallowed and paled, and he shook his head as if he wished he could erase the comment from the record. He hit his hand-link for a little light relief as Sam looked at him oddly, wondering what was going through his Observer's mind. Moving hastily on, Al informed him, "Ziggy says your best bet is to get Yas and yourself  _out_  of the gang…"

Sam's look said, 'I only just got  _in_  and look what it cost me!' He flinched as Emiko worked her liniment into a huge bruise over his left kidney.

"I know, Sam," acknowledged Al, "and it isn't that easy either. To be allowed to leave you have to 'Jump Out', and you can guess what that involves."

Sam didn't need diagrams, but Al elaborated anyway.

"Jumping Out is twice as long and twice as brutal as Jumping In. Most kids don't survive it.  **You**  might be able to take it, but Zig says Yasuo almost certainly wouldn't."

Sam looked up sharply. To save the kids life, Ziggy was telling him he had to make him risk it. It didn't make sense.

Finally, Emiko was satisfied she had done all she could.

"Anywhere else?" she asked, looking at his legs encased in the pajama trousers.

Sam was not about to strip them off and have her apply the same thorough massage to his remaining tender areas.

"No, sobo,  _Hai, genki desu_ , thank you," he assured her, his voice tremulous.

She gave his shoulder an affectionate squeeze, and it didn't hurt as it should have done. He smiled at her and repeated, " _Domo arigato gozaimasu_."

"Drink you tea," she ordered, and with a knowing wink, left him the jar as she scurried out, reminding him of the protocol. "Let it dry for ten minutes after finished, then get dressed, or you be late for school."

When she had gone, Sam looked up at Al forlornly, "Okay Al, now what am I going to do?"

Deliberately misinterpreting Sam's plea to be told how to accomplish the mission, Al made an expansive gesture. "Drink your tea, Sam, and finish your basting," he grinned with false joviality. "I'll catch you later."

Before Sam could protest, Al had hit a button on his hand-link and vanished unceremoniously.


	4. Three

**QLHQ**

David Beckett had a headache.

It felt like he'd had one headache after another ever since he first moved to New Mexico – how long ago was it? He couldn't remember.

Not that it was the sort of memory loss that in his old life would have driven him crazy. Those days were over forever.

As promised, the Admiral, with a little help from Verbena Beeks (the Project shrink), had given him all the answers he wanted - and a few he could have done without. He'd been shown the Waiting Room from the Observation deck while Mary McGillicuddy was still there in Sam's aura, and as they explained its purpose a whole rush of memories flooded back to him, both good and bad. He remembered the excitement of learning he'd traveled to his future, the whole 'X files' experience, the thrill of finding out about Ziggy. He remembered the exhilaration of hacking into the parallel hybrid computer, and the horrendous consequences of his 'harmless' investigation.

In a very short time, the blanks had all been filled in, and everything finally made sense, though the last bit he'd have been happy to have left in the mists of mystery.

He expressed surprise that they would employ someone who had almost managed to single handedly sabotage everything they were doing, but had to concede that the demise of the real Gushie left them with few options, and his interference had at least served to showcase his not inconsiderable skills.

Having recalled his conversations with that inestimable gentleman, David knew that he would have his work cut out to live up to the Chief Programmer's deserved reputation. He promised he would do all in his power to be a worthy successor, and intended to make good on his promise.

Only it wasn't the piece of cake he'd hoped it would be.

He soon got the measure of the theory, no worries. The practicalities were a different matter altogether.

His greatest obstacle was Ziggy herself.

Al had warned him she had an ego problem to deal with, but he was totally unprepared for her reaction to the news that he was to be her new best friend.

For a start, there was the undisguised, unmitigated hostility.

She remembered who he was instantly, and immediately went into a snit, telling Al she would  _never_  let 'that man' lay one finger on her circuits, and if he dared to try she would fry him to a crisp faster than he could say "Oh boy!"

It had been Tina who had finally coaxed her out of  _that_  mood, by suggesting that Ziggy was afraid of David, because he had once managed to penetrate her defenses.

Tina knew that Zig would never admit to anything remotely resembling a human weakness such as fear; though in truth the recent second attempt to perpetrate an attack on her had made Ziggy feel extremely vulnerable.

So the computer had 'graciously' allowed David to take up his duties, to prove she was not scared of him.

Not that this meant she would actually co-operate with him of course.

In fact she went out of her way to be awkward whenever they were alone.

When Sammi-Jo or Tina or any of the others were around, Ziggy was sweetness and light, so that they wondered what he was complaining about.

Yet as soon as he was left in charge of the computer, she would throw up niggling little problems, or feed him conflicting data. A few times she had resorted to actually giving him a little "accidental" jolt of an electric shock when he tried to fine tune her systems, and generally did her best to make him look stupid or inept.

Things had gotten  _slightly_  better once Sam Leaped; the computer would not put her creator in danger by her action or inaction, though that initial Leap - when she had flooded the Waiting Room – David had been convinced at first that she had done that just to get at him.

It had started while Sam was still in limbo with what Ziggy had insisted was a malfunction of the sprinkler system, triggered in response to a phantom fire. She maintained it was purely coincidental that the dolphin had appeared right after the rising water level had floated Sam's supine figure off the bed, but David hadn't bought a word of it. Especially since the door to the Waiting Room had mysteriously 'jammed' at exactly the same time, preventing David from fixing the 'malfunction'. It didn't add up, and he couldn't help feeling a paranoid sense of being 'got at'; that Ziggy was toying with him and trying to get him to quit in frustration. For this reason, he had not reported the 'problem' to Al when it arose, since he fully expected that if he had, Ziggy would have cured it instantly and made him look stupid. He'd determined to keep it between them so long as Sam was not endangered. Of course it had turned out to be fortuitous for the dolphin, still David didn't believe in that degree of coincidence, and was convinced something more was behind it, but he couldn't get Ziggy to give anything away.

Now that Sam had settled into what seemed like a more normal Leap (though that in itself was something of an oxymoron), Ziggy was allowing David to do what he needed to do, but not making things easy for him, and still stubbornly refusing to use the nickname "Gushie" that everyone had been told should be applied whenever he was on duty.

She stated categorically that there had been and could only ever be  _one_  Gushie, and that he could never ever be replaced, either in name or in capability, and they were traitors to his memory to try.

She missed the real Gushie. She mourned him.

She wouldn't call him David, since she had no wish to appear on friendly terms with him. She wouldn't call him Mr. Beckett, since she said that reminded her of her father, and the new Chief Programmer was not fit to be mentioned in the same breath as the great Dr. Beckett. David thought it prudent not to point out that the computer did not need breath to talk.

So she referred to David as "that man" or "him" or "the new programmer" or some such other impersonal epithet, and always in denigrating tones.

Everyone tried to convince her that David was only trying to do what was best for her and for the Project, but so far she was being obdurate in the extreme.

Now Sammi-Jo had taken off who-knew-where, and David was left alone with Ziggy most of the time. Despite his profuse and sincere apologies for his earlier infraction, his efforts to flatter and his assurance that he wished only to honor the memory of Gushie, it didn't seem like he was making  _any_  progress in getting her to come around and accept him, making everything he did an uphill struggle.

No wonder he had a headache.

**San Francisco**

**Tuesday 24th February 1976**

Sam Beckett had a headache.

Kazuo's Tuesday timetable had not been too taxing; he'd even enjoyed the Physics class, and the praise of a teacher pleasantly surprised at Kaz's newfound insight into the subject.

He'd met up with Yasuo every recess for, being two years his senior; Sam didn't have any classes in common. They had talked about their schoolmates, helping Sam to chat amicably with total strangers he'd supposedly known for years. They'd talked about schoolwork, about girls, about all sorts of trivia.

Finally, at lunch, Sam had gotten him talking about the Cobras.

Yasuo was jubilant that he'd managed to talk Kaz into joining. He evidently looked up to the older boy like a big brother, and was desperate for his approval.

Sam learned from Al, who came along and 'sat' on the edge of the bench while they were eating, that both boys were orphans.

Kazuo had been the family's sole survivor of a bus crash that had killed both of his parents, his paternal grandparents, and his four year old sister when he was barely seven. Emiko, his mother's widowed mother, had moved over from Japan to take care of him, since he had been born in America and knew no other life or friends. The old lady had been invited years before to emigrate with her daughter, who moved to America to be with her husband, but had at that time declined. It had been a huge uprooting for her to leave her old life behind and take on sole responsibility for a boy she had only met on a couple of brief holidays back to Japan.

Sam felt the renewed guilt of deceiving this kind, sweet gentle soul, and decided the sooner he could get both boys away from the bad influence of the gang the better for all concerned.

Yasuo, he discovered, was an only child who had lost both his parents in a drive-by shooting some three years or so back. He was being fostered by a couple who took care of his physical needs, but were too busy with their own lives and their precious daughter of two to really bother being concerned about what he did, where he went, and who he saw. Having fostered because they thought they couldn't have their own children, the mother had almost immediately become pregnant, and the thrill of having Yas to care for had been supplanted by the elation of having a longed-for child of their own. Yas didn't feel himself to be neglected exactly, but it was easy to see how the 'family' of the Cobras had given him the sense of belonging he lacked elsewhere. Yasuo was telling him almost exactly that, extolling the virtues of being part of that illustrious association. Sam saw it differently, but for the moment held his tongue.

How Yas had talked the older lad into joining him was a mystery, though Al told Sam that Kazuo had few close friends, and Yasuo's family had befriended him when he'd been orphaned. He'd felt the loss of Yasuo's parents almost as keenly as the loss of his own, and the boys had bonded closer still.

Sam hoped that - like himself - Kazuo's motivation for wanting in to the Cobras had been to better look out for his 'little brother', rather than some romantic notion of the glory of gang membership. The circumstances surrounding his Leap-in tended to suggest this may well be the case, for rather than currying favor with the group, before Sam's arrival Kazuo had somehow managed to cause great offence.

The cut on his head received during the punishment of that offence may well have been contributing to Sam's headache.

The greater part of it, however, could be attributed to tension. The more Yasuo talked, the harder Sam realized it would be to persuade him to leave the gang, even if the Jump Out could be achieved without fatal injury, which Al still predicted would be doubtful. Sam began to wonder if he could simply keep the boy away from the danger area on Sunday, but the animated way Yas was talking about hanging out with them that same night – a school night! – did not bode well. Kasuo may have been admired as a big brother figure, but Yas hero-worshipped Matanaru Fujiyama and his group.

"I'm not sure I can make it," began Sam, hoping to distance both boys from any gang activity, "I've a mountain of homework." He patted his rucksack, bulging with textbooks and notebooks and all the usual paraphernalia of school.

"But we're gonna go to the gym, it'll be great," enthused Yasuo, eyes bright with excitement.

Al's handlink squealed suddenly, loudly, and alarmingly like a mouse with its tail caught in a trap.

Al jumped visibly and began prodding and poking at it, seeking an explanation. Sam almost choked on his sandwich, but otherwise managed to restrict his startled reaction to a look of dismay shot hastily at his friend. Such noises never heralded good news.

"Uh-oh," confirmed Al. "This is bad, Sam."

A rolling of Sam's eyes conveyed the sarcastic response he couldn't give aloud, 'What a surprise!'

"There's gonna be an, uh, an altercation tonight Sam," Al began, trying to ease Sam into the bad news. "A run in with the Scorpions…"

"Listen, Yas," Sam jumped in, aware of the dire prediction surrounding Yas and the rival gang and not wanting anything to escalate hostilities. "I've heard a rumor the Scorpions are gonna be hanging round the gym tonight, maybe we'd do better to steer clear…"

"You can't Sam!" interjected Al. "Ziggy says you have another mission."

Sam glared at his friend, wasn't saving Yas' life enough of a task?

"In the melee tonight, Tamiko Miura is gonna be killed. She's the Queen Cobra, Matanaru's girlfriend. She's a week away from her 17th birthday, Sam."

Sam drew in a sharp breath.

"We're not looking for trouble, Kaz," Yasuo assured him. "The gym is neutral territory."

'Oh boy! Now I'm slap in the middle of West Side Story!' thought Sam, remembering how tragically  _that_  tale ended and blanching at the thought that a similar fate awaited the players in this current drama. If his being there could potentially prevent the death of a young girl, then of course he  **had**  to be there.

Sam forced his body language into projecting a casual air, and etched a smile onto his face.

"You're really looking forward to it, aren't you, Yas?" he asked, somewhat unnecessarily.

"You bet!" Yas nodded, his own grin beaming brighter than the mid-day sun, which the season had watered down. "The sooner it gets to seven thirty the better as far as I'm concerned."

"I guess I'll see you there, then." Sam clapped Yasuo on the shoulder, and rose to his feet, throwing the remnants of his lunch in the trash and heading off to afternoon lessons at the sound of the bell. The lunch break had done nothing to alleviate his headache; in fact, if anything, it had just gotten a whole lot worse.

**QLHQ**

Rusty Kincaid had a headache.

He was out of the infirmary, but under 'house arrest' in his quarters. His room felt oppressive and confining, even forgetting the pair of armed guards ready to terminate his contract with extreme prejudice if he dared to venture outside.

No trace of mercury remained within the four walls. Verbena Beeks had ordered all his contaminated bedding and clothing to be burned – outside of the complex, in a well-ventilated area (namely the desert!) well away from everybody and with protective breathing apparatus. The room itself had been thoroughly fumigated, spring-cleaned and spruced up.

It was now bright and light and cheery, but it failed to lift his spirits.

He may not be seeing daemons in his room any more, but in a sense he was still battling them in his mind. He could not reconcile the things they said he'd done with the hazy crazy memories and nightmares, and he certainly couldn't reconcile any of it with his conscience. He wanted to protest his innocence, to say that he, Ralph Kincaid, could not possibly have committed such horrendous acts. He wasn't like that. Except that they had shown him irrefutable proof of his guilt.

The fact that he had been suffering temporary insanity due to severe mercury poisoning was enough to satisfy any court of law, it seemed, but it did not satisfy Rusty. He had maimed, he had killed; he deserved to be punished. He  _needed_  to be punished. If everyone else was unwilling to punish him, perhaps he should find a way to punish himself.

He'd started by severing all contact with Patti. He had no right to be happily engaged and planning a life of wedded bliss when he'd robbed Gushie of any sort of life at all. Not to mention the fact that she deserved better. She was far better off without him.

This in itself was not enough though. There had to be more. He could not make amends – could not give Gushie back his life, no matter how many times he wished it might be so. Therefore, he must somehow be penalized.

He thought seriously of terminating his own existence. He was not afraid to do it. He knew his crime warranted execution. Yet Beeks had ensured he was prevented from carrying out his self imposed sentence, and on reflection, he decided that perhaps a quick death was letting himself off too leniently, showing a degree of mercy that he could not justify in the light of his offence.

So Rusty wandered restlessly around his room, trying to think of a suitable way to offer retribution for his evil doing. Only he couldn't think clearly. He had a headache.

**O'Hare International Airport**

Sammi-Jo Fuller had a headache.

Ziggy had booked her on the first available flight from Albuquerque International Airport, but that meant she had barely had time to drive from QLHQ, find a long term parking space and make it to check-in before the flight was closed.

Clutching her boarding pass as if it were a winning lottery ticket, she'd dashed to join the last of the passengers on the bus that would take them out across the tarmac to their waiting plane.

Then bad weather had delayed what should have been just under a three-hour flight, and it had been well over four fret filled hours later that the plane had finally landed at O'Hare. Persistent rain drummed on the windows and the wings as they waited to disembark; the weather as damp and dreary as her spirits.

The loss of her one hastily packed suitcase did not improve matters. Frustrated, impatient scouring of the carousels had failed to find it. Complaints to the airline desk had been to no avail.

In the end, Sammi-Jo left her details, grabbed her hand luggage, and told them to contact her at Augustana hospital if the elusive item should turn up. It seemed most likely that a mistake at Albuquerque had sent her luggage on the wrong flight, and it was currently holidaying in Barbados! She envied it.

Now she was standing outside the terminal, soaked through by the rain, trying to hail a taxicab. She had many rivals for the few available. One after another the traditional yellow cabs, and their more recent orange counterparts, swallowed up travelers blowing in to go sight-seeing, or rushing to business meetings, leaving Sammi-Jo seething at her inability to grab the attention of any of the drivers. Didn't these people realize that her journey was more urgent than all of theirs put together?

Anxious minutes ticked by, and Sammi-Jo became more and more aggravated.

By the time a kindly gentleman in a smart suit with a black leather briefcase finally noticed her distress and waved her into the cab he had flagged down, her headache was bordering on a migraine. With a wan smile and a wave of thanks to her knight in shining gabardine, she sank wearily into the well-worn seat of the cab, and instructed the driver to make all haste to Augustana Hospital.

"I'm coming," she whispered. "Hold on,  _please_  hold on, I'll be there soon."


	5. Four

**San Francisco**

Sam went straight to Kazuo's home after school, and planned to scale the 'mountain' of homework well before dinner. He wanted to be at the gym early to make sure he kept on top of the situation and prevented Tamiko's tragic and unnecessary demise.

Al, predictably, had not been able to give him much in the way of useful information. In the original history, both gangs had clammed up and refused to talk to police about what had occurred, and no independent witnesses had come forward. Sam speculated that had there been any such eyewitnesses, they were probably too terrified of what the gangs would do to them to offer any evidence, and Ziggy concurred.

Having so little to go on, Sam told Al that he would just have to keep his eyes and ears open and see if he could get wind of anything. He sent the hologram to check out the scene of the upcoming crime, and the various gang members to try and get some clues as to what was going to go down.

Sam could only hope that by being first to arrive that evening, he could – if not prevent the altercation altogether - at least nip it in the bud and prevent it from escalating to fatal proportions.

Only of course, the best laid plans…

The moment he arrived home, Emiko presented him with a bundle of dollar bills and a shopping list. It was evident that due to her limited language skills, Kazuo was the one do all the chores that involved interacting with the locals, like getting the groceries.

Sam soon found the convenience store, and tracked down every item on the lengthy list - the homeward journey taking him much longer than the jog there, since he was laden down with provisions that were both heavy and awkward to carry.

By the time he'd staggered back, mostly uphill, he was tired, and the aches in his pummeled muscles had returned. He really would have preferred a quiet night at home and another long hot soak before turning in early.

It was not to be.

Once the groceries were unpacked and tidied away, other chores conspired to keep him from his homework until supper time, which he ate as fast as was polite, telling Emiko about his day at school, and his arrangement to meet Yas at the gym that evening (leaving out the expected presence of gang members on both sides, naturally). Emiko was less than happy about him going out on a school night; especially to a place that even  _she_  knew sometimes hosted gang related activities.

At first she forbade him to go altogether.

Sam knew he dare not obey her sensible ban, but did not relish the prospect of sneaking out against her wishes, or without her knowledge. So he tried to persuade her to change her mind, telling her that Yas was relying on him to help with his martial arts training. Since they were more than likely going to end up engaging in some form of hands-on combat, this was not too far from the truth.

Eventually, the old lady relented, on condition that he finish his homework and remaining chores first, that he returned at a civilized time, and that he head back home at the first sign of trouble. The first condition he agreed to readily, the second and third he managed to avoid giving direct assurances about, knowing that both were unlikely to be promises he could have even a remote chance of keeping. He  _was_  able to set her mind at rest on one score.

"You have my word, sobo, I won't buy any drugs from  _anyone_ , gang members or not."

Despite his best intentions, the homework took him far longer than he imagined. His genius brain should have found the subject matter child's play, but the persistent headache, the Swiss-cheese effects of Leaping, the distraction of his impending life-saving mission, and the lack of recent practice in writing essays meant that he struggled to complete his assignments.

He was just finishing off the last one, and mentally listing the chores that still needed doing – annoyed now that he had neglected so many the night before – when a panic-stricken Al suddenly materialized before him, startling him into dropping his ballpoint pen.

"Why must you always do that?" Sam complained predictably, as he bent to retrieve the errant object, which he stuffed into his shirt breast pocket absently.

Without waiting for a reply, Sam set about packing Kaz's books back into the school bag ready for the next morning and tidying the rest of the study area of his bedroom. He knew Al would tell him what he needed to hear, and he would react accordingly, but that didn't mean he had to stand around idly while he listened.

"Forget all that, Sam," urged the hologram, gesticulating expansively to indicate that his friend should avail himself of the nearest exit. "You gotta get to the gym and pronto. Both gangs are already there, and it's starting to look ugly. The Scorpions were already shooting hoops when the Cobras turned up, and they challenged them to a game. It seemed fairly innocuous at first, a bit of posturing on both sides, showing off to the girls, you know the sort of thing."

Sam nodded, not pausing in his tidying up, which was now being achieved in double time.

"I'd started hoping they were gonna settle their differences in a gentlemanly way on the court, but then Yamashita – the no 2 in the Cobras, remember…?"

Sam remembered - the scar-faced Crown Prince who had stared at him with such extreme hostility. The phrase 'if looks could kill' may have been invented for this one, in which case, Sam was lucky to be still drawing breath at that moment.

"Yeah, real charmer," responded Sam, inclining his head by way of asking "what about him?"

"Right!" Al concurred, picking up on Sam's tone. "Well he fouled one of the Scorpion players - deliberately tripped him up."

"What happened?" asked Sam with mounting dread; afraid he already knew the answer.

"It was just heated words when I left, Sam, but I thought I'd better get you over there fast, cos I doubt it'd stay that way for long. Come on pal, get your butt in gear, you gotta make tracks." Al began gesturing again, as if he could sweep Sam out of the room on the wake of his waving arms.

Sam shared Al's sense of urgency, and swept the rest of the untidy items into a heap on the floor of the wardrobe, slamming the door shut and rushing out.

Emiko called out to him as he headed for the front door, and he was forced to detour to give the old lady a kiss before departing, promising not to be late home.

"Come  _on_  Sam, get your skates on!" urged Al.

Sam rushed for the exit once more, and realized that his holographic pal was being literal. Al was pointing to a scruffy pair of roller skates stacked below the coat rack, suggesting that Sam may make better time if he had a set of wheels.

Sam would have preferred a fast car, but then Kazuo was only sixteen. He pushed his reluctant feet into the battered skates, and weaved uncertainly out.

A couple of false starts, which had him nearly falling on his butt, and then Sam got the hang of the old things. They were not sleek in-line blades; this was the mid 70's and they were instead rather primitive, clumsy things, with wheels that wobbled alarmingly as if they could fall off at any time.

Sam nearly abandoned them for a barefoot dash, but then Al directed him downhill, and he found himself able to make good time by gliding along with a measured rhythm.

oOo

In better time than he'd dared hope, Sam arrived at the gym.

There hadn't been any independent eyewitnesses, Sam realized, since anyone else who may have been there had obviously beaten a strategic withdrawal as the tension escalated. He passed the last of them as he went in.

It had indeed blown up into a brawl, fists and feet flying in a medley of martial arts moves. Some of them were engaged one-on-one, others were in a general melee. It would have been impossible to tell who was who and which side they were on, were it not for the fact that the Cobra's all had their emblem emblazoned jackets and purple bandanas, while the Scorpions had corresponding red bandanas, and similar black jackets with red Scorpion insignia on the back, and the gang name in silver studs.

A sign on the door ordered Sam to remove his skates before entering, and he pulled them off roughly along with his socks, even as he scanned the room for any potentially lethal hazards. So far, to his great relief, none of the combatants seemed to have drawn their flick knives.

Sam spotted Yasuo, on the ground and on the receiving end of some brutal blows from a pair of Scorpion assailants. Instinctively, he moved to help.

"No, no, Sam," insisted Al, "the other way, over there. Tamiko's over there with the purple ribbon in her hair."

Sam hesitated a moment longer. Yasuo was his primary mission, and he looked to be in serious trouble. Al had to point out, "Don't worry about him, Sam. Ziggy said he dies as a result of the shooting on Sunday, so he must survive tonight. It's Tamiko who's in immediate danger."

Sam gave a terse nod, acknowledging this sagacity, even as he changed direction.

As ill luck would have it, his target was about as far away as she could be.

Tamiko was engaged in a catfight with what looked to be the Queen Scorpion, and they were on the opposite side of the gym, in the corner near a four-foot high stack of thick blue gym mats. 'At least she'll have somewhere soft to land if her opponent throws her,' thought Sam.

The way the girls were circling each other, each trying to strike out at the other, they could indeed have been a scorpion and a cobra in a life and death battle in the desert.

Sam edged toward them, hoping to get in between the warring women and avert whatever tragedy was about to unfold, without alarming them or anyone else into doing anything hasty or regrettable – like killing him or Tamiko!

Unfortunately, the Scorpions had other ideas.

At first they had more or less ignored him. Yasuo still had Sam's 'uniform' in his rucksack, so he was not immediately associated with the enemy. As soon as he started out toward their Queen, however, he became a threat that needed to be dealt with.

The nearest Scorpion broke off his assault on one of the younger Cobras and struck out at Sam, who felled him with a sidekick whilst barely breaking stride.

This impressive maneuver drew the notice of the rest of the gang, and they turned their attention - and their attacks – onto the newcomer.

One by one they came at Sam, and one by one he brushed them aside with a swift karate chop, a Tae Kwon Do kick, a judo throw, a series of seemingly effortless martial arts moves, intent that nothing and nobody should keep him from getting to Tamiko before it was too late. Even as they fell groaning in defeat, they had to admire his skill and technique, as did the Cobras who looked on in amazement and awe, well aware that their assistance was clearly not needed.

He was almost there, when Tamiko made a grab and caught the other girl by the arm. Wrenching it free, the Scorpion Queen retaliated by grabbing Tamiko by the hair and yanking it hard, pulling her head back so that Tamiko was staring at the ceiling. As her opponent used her other hand to pull Tamiko's arm up around behind her back, Tamiko brought her foot back to catch the other girl on the shin, causing her to yelp with pain.

"Nuwa!" called the leader of the Scorpions, whom Sam had just flattened with a flying noodle kick.

Nuwa was distracted by her boyfriend's call, and by an elbow jabbed sharply into her side from her counterpart's free arm. Nuwa evidently decided she wanted to be out of range of Tamiko's attacks, and gave her a sudden sharp push forward, letting go of hair and arm with a thrust of dismissal, and a knee in the back for extra driving force.

The momentum carried Tamiko stumbling forward, causing her to collide with the stack of mats, before rebounding and falling to the floor.

At first, it appeared she was just winded, momentarily stunned by the contact. How could it be worse than that? She'd just bounced off the mats, and after all they  _were_  meant to cushion against impact injuries.

Sam pushed Nuwa aside before she could pounce on her fallen adversary, and he didn't need the alarmed shriek of Ziggy's handlink to tell him that something was seriously wrong. He bent low over the unmoving teenager, feeling her neck for a pulse and looking for the rise and fall of her chest to check for the regularity of her breath, which he likewise expected to feel on his cheek. Both were absent.

"She's not breathing!" he cried in alarm, primarily to Al.

The rest of the assembly picked up on his panic. Nuwa was shaking her head in denial that she could have caused any serious injury, backing away. As one, the Scorpions all decided to distance themselves from the victim and they hastily dispersed, unhindered by the Cobras, who were all gazing in stunned silence at their fallen Queen.

"Call an ambulance," Sam ordered the general assembly, and when nobody on the home team moved, he yelled, "Now, hurry, or she'll die!"

"Tammy!" yelled Matanaru, kneeling on the other side of his stricken girlfriend, horrified by Sam's proclamation and feeling helpless. Then he commanded,

"Do as he says – at once!"

Three Cobras hastened to obey.

Sam glanced up at the pile of mats, to see if any weapons had been concealed in them, but all he could discern was that the top one was protruding slightly. Before he had time to examine Tamiko any further for clues as to her condition, Al provided the diagnosis he needed, his voice conveying all due urgency and seriousness.

"You gotta do something fast, Sam! Ziggy says that the blow to her throat crushed her windpipe. Her airway's blocked, she's gonna suffocate. You got 3 minutes before she's brain dead!"

"Oh boy!" breathed Sam, then immediately shouted to Yasuo,

"Throw me my jacket!"

Though puzzled, Yasuo did as he was bid.

Sam grabbed the coat and fished in the pocket for the flick-knife he'd been presented with. Then he rolled the garment up and placed it under her shoulders to help stretch out her neck, after which he opened out the knife, aware that he had little time in which to perform a field tracheotomy in order to save her life. It was not a simple undertaking, and he knew he would need all his nerve to achieve it.

Tadayuki Yamashita saw him draw his weapon and lunged forward to protect his Queen, grabbing Sam's wrist, and twisting it, trying to make him release his hold on the knife. Sam grimaced in pain, but held fast.

"Sire, he's a traitor!" Tad cried, with undisguised glee. "He's trying to kill the Queen!"

Matanaru was staring at Tamiko, so still and so pale, her own eyes staring up in panic and fear, her face beginning to turn blue, and for a second did not register the warning. Then rage exploded within him - at the Scorpion who had attacked her, and the newly elected Cobra who looked set to finish the job.

"Over my dead body!" he declared, pulling back his arm to strike Sam down.

" _Matte_!  _Anone_!" yelled Sam imperatively. ( _Wait! Listen!)_  "We don't have time for this. Her windpipe has been crushed, if I don't make an incision and perform an endotracheal intubation immediately, she'll die of asphyxiation. In about two minutes she'll be brain dead."

The King Cobra and his Crown Prince did not pretend to understand the medical terms. The words "die" and "brain-dead" penetrated Matanaru's consciousness, though, and he lowered his arm, not following through with the blow.

"You – you can save her?" he asked, not caring that the mighty monarch was being heard to plead.

"I can try,  _if_  you'll let me," Sam told him, nodding to his still restrained wrist.

"Release him!" ordered Fujiyama.

Resentfully, reluctantly, Tadayuki let go of Sam's wrist, but spat at Sam so only he and his invisible friend could hear,

"If she dies,  **you**  die - understand?"

His eyes blazed with hatred, and Sam felt he was conducting an internal debate as to which outcome he would find preferable – Tamiko's survival or the chance to be rid of Kazuo. Sam nodded his understanding, though he knew all too well the risks of performing this procedure outside the operating theater. He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Hold her head perfectly still," Sam instructed Matanaru, as he felt the girl's bruised throat gently to ensure he picked exactly the right spot. Get it wrong, and he could sever the carotid artery, or damage the thyroid. "The rest of you, back up, give me room."

The Cobras complied, though Tad remained closer than Sam felt comfortable with.

Taking the Bic from his shirt pocket, Sam pulled out the stopper from one end and removed the ballpoint and ink-tube from the other, leaving an empty casing. This he laid carefully on his patient's stomach, so it would be at hand when he needed it.

Mat looked on with confused curiosity, followed by horrified incredulity as he saw what Sam did next. To his credit, he retained enough presence of mind to keep to his task of rendering Tamiko's head immobile.

Working deftly, though Tad's intimidating manner threatened to make his hand shake, Sam made a small neat incision in Tamiko's throat. Instantly, he located the trachea and opened up the cartilage between the second and fourth tracheal rings. Then, in the absence of anything more suitable - such as a flexible straw - he inserted the plastic tube of the pen, to keep the stoma from closing up again and assist the passage of air to her lungs.

A slight whistling, wheezing sound was enough to let him know he had succeeded. He too breathed a little easier, as he bandaged Tamiko's neck with his bandana to stem the bleeding and keep the makeshift trach tube in place.

"Just try to breathe normally," Dr Beckett told her, placing a reassuring hand lightly on her shoulder. "Lie still, try to keep as relaxed as possible. I know it's scary, but you're okay, you're gonna be okay."

Sam looked enquiringly at Al, wanting to be sure that he was not merely mouthing platitudes - for her sake, and also for his own. Tad continued to glower at him.

A quick consultation with the hand-link, and Al nodded, his own relief almost palpable.

"Ziggy says she's gonna be fine, Sam. You did good, buddy."

Sam allowed himself a small smile, and a slow blink coupled with a sigh of relief.

Tamiko looked from one face to another, though careful to keep her head still. It felt as if any movement would make it fall off. To Sam, her eyes showed gratitude, to Mat the expression was almost apology. A lone tear escaped her eye and trickled down her cheek. Hesitantly, she raised her arm to wipe it away, then paused, her hand trembling, as the temptation to explore her throat fought with the fear of what she knew to be there. A second tear joined the first, and she looked as if she wanted to talk, but daren't. Mat caught her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"You probably have lots of questions, but you shouldn't try to talk," interpreted Sam. "There may well be a slight scar, but it shouldn't be too ugly or obvious. And no, you don't look frightful now! One of these days, it may even become a fashion statement!"

Sam recalled the original first recorded instance of a tracheotomy utilizing a ballpoint pen–around the turn of the millennium - performed on the fashion model Kate Moss, who bravely went on to the catwalk shortly after the pen had been inserted. It had indeed sparked an alarming trend known as the T-choker, where women wore tracheotomy tubes on surgical straps, with or without the accompanying incision. The really scary thing was the number of unnecessary surgical procedures that were carried out in the name of authenticity. It was as much as Sam could do to understand self-mutilation such as nose, belly button and lip piercing - this hideous and surely  **un** attractive craze was totally beyond his ken.

Again, Tammy's watery eyes showed gratitude. For a boy, this one was pretty sensitive to how a girl was feeling. She tried to smile, but even that made her neck feel taut.

Tadayuki had a question of his own,

"How could a little bump like  **that**  have crushed her windpipe?"

He didn't like the way Fujiyama was clapping Kazuo on the back, obviously taken in by the sickening display the newcomer had put on. He didn't know for sure what Sakaguchi's hidden agenda was, but he had a pretty good idea that it involved ingratiating himself with the King Cobra, and probably supplanting him, Tad, as Second-in-Command. He may even have had aspirations to take over the leadership of the gang! Tad would make sure that never happened. The show-off upstart would not find any followers among the Cobras; Tad would make sure they stayed loyal to Mat, and to himself. His buddy Hashimoto wouldn't be any threat. Tad could handle him easily.

"It only takes 5 pounds of pressure per square inch," Sam informed them. "A sharp blow with momentum behind it like that can easily generate that sort of force."

Far from being appeased, Tad looked even crosser at this display of 'know-it-all' cockiness, as he perceived it.

Luckily, at that moment all their attentions were distracted by the arrival of the paramedics.

One glance told them all they needed to know, except one thing.

"Who did this?" They looked around at the gang of teenagers, seeking a Coach, or Youth leader, or some other adult.

"I did," Sam confessed, as they checked Tammy over and prepared to stretcher her out. He anticipated their next question when they had barely begun to formulate it.

"How…"

"I saw it done on an episode of Marcus Welby." Sam remembered how the first-aider who'd operated on Ms. Moss had quoted " _E.R._ " as his inspiration, and Marcus Welby MD was the only similar program he could remember as being around at the time he was currently reliving. He had no idea if such an episode had ever aired, but he hoped that they would take his word for it.

As indeed they did. After all, it was a more logical explanation than the truth!

"Great job, very neat. You saved her life for sure," they congratulated him.

Sam merely nodded modestly. He didn't want to further inflame Tadayuki.

Unfortunately, that outcome seemed inevitable despite Sam's best efforts, when Matanaru shook him firmly by the hand as he moved off to go with his girlfriend in the ambulance.

"I don't know how you did it," he told Sam, "but we're both in your debt, Kazuo. Thank you. I won't forget this,  _brother_  Cobra." Mat emphasized the title with pride, smiling warmly at Sam. As he left he instructed Tad to "take care of the Cobras" in his absence, and to be sure to make Kaz welcome as befitted one who had shown his loyalty so outstandingly.

Sure enough, Yamashita was glaring daggers at Sam, though from a position safely behind his liege Lord's back.


	6. Five

**Augustana Hospital**

**Chicago, Illinois**

Sammi-Jo was pacing the floor of the relative's room, wringing her hands in frustration. She had been promised that the doctor would be "right along" to talk to her, but she had been waiting for nearly an hour. Nobody would tell her anything, least of all why she wasn't allowed to see her mother.

Her brothers, Daniel and Alex, had been there when she arrived, but didn't seem to know much more than she had already been told. Which was precious little when it came down to it. They were off now trying to learn more, and whilst she was eager, nay desperate for news, she was equally in need of some brotherly love right now.

Of course strictly speaking, they were her  _half-_ brothers, since their father was Phillip Mililani, her stepfather, but he had never treated her differently than the triplets. They were all treated equally. She had always been his daughter every inch as much as Candace. He loved Sammi-Jo, he raised her as his own, and after Candace died in that car crash in '98, he'd made it clear that having Sammi-Jo's support and filial affection had helped him cope with his loss more than anything else.

Thus it was that she was feeling  _his_ loss now every bit as keenly as the boys were.

Being nearly a decade older than her mother, she supposed that they had all assumed he would probably be the first to go, but not yet, not for a long time yet, and not like this - and certainly not with the extreme possibility that Abigail would not outlive him by more than days at most.

Sammi-Jo sniffed. She'd more or less cried herself out in Al's room, but now the tears threatened to surface again. She didn't want to be crying when she was finally allowed to see her Mom. What was keeping that darned doctor? And where were her brothers? If she didn't get some answers soon, Sammi-Jo felt she would scream. She considered herself a patient woman, but some things would try the patience of a Saint, and she made no claims to  _that_  title.

Sammi-Jo resumed her pacing.

"Miss Fuller?"

The voice was quiet, almost apologetic. Even so, it startled her and she turned round to face the speaker, correcting automatically,

"It's  **Dr.**  Fuller actually."

The voice was even more apologetic as,  **not**  the long-awaited Doctor, but rather a young police officer entered the room and motioned Sammi-Jo to a seat.

"Of course, of course, I beg your pardon."

Sammi-Jo waved a dismissive hand. It really wasn't important. She didn't know why she had mentioned it. Her eyes searched the Officer's face for some sign to warn her what she was about to hear. Was it too late? Was she about to be told that she and her brothers were orphans?

Again, that was not strictly true for her, since as far as she knew, Will Kinman was still alive. Though from the moment Philip Mililani entered their lives, Will had been her father in name only. Not that he had ever been what you could call a hands-on parent in any case. But that didn't matter now.

"Firstly, Miss – uh, Doctor Fuller, I have some good news for you. The doctor says that you can have a few minutes with your mother as soon as we're done here. Your brothers are with her now."

Sammi-Jo smiled her thanks, as she perched on the edge of her seat. She was more anxious than ever to go and find her mother, but she also needed to know what the Policeman wanted with her.

"I uh, it's really not my place to say it, ma'am, but I feel I should warn you - you should steel yourself. Your Mom's in a pretty bad way."

Sammi-Jo twisted her fingers nervously and sniffed again.

"I don't mean to be rude, Officer, but can we just get to the point. I really am anxious to see my mother."

"Of course, forgive me." The policeman, whose badge declared his name to be Lewis Cutler, looked uncomfortable. He was young, 'still wet behind the ears' thought Sammi-Jo, and acted as if this was his first solo mission and he was out of his depth.

"Can you tell me what you already know?" he asked.

"Only that my parent's neighbor, Mrs. Wilmette, was woken by the sound of gunshots and called the police. She has a key to their house since she waters the plants and looks after the cats whenever they are away."

Sammi-Jo told him how she'd been informed that having seen two figures – presumably burglars who'd been disturbed - running away while she was on the phone, she went round and found Abigail lying in a pool of blood at the foot of the stairs, She understood Mrs. Wilmette had done what she could while waiting for the ambulance, but tragically, the neighbor had been unable to do anything for Sammi-Jo's father, who'd died instantly after taking a bullet through the head.

Sammi-Jo had tried to remain business like as she retold the tale she had been playing back in her head since she got the distressing call in the night that had shattered her world. Pronouncing this last was too much for her, however, and she gave in to tears once more. It was only now that it was really sinking in. Her father was not going to walk in and make everything right.

All through her life, Sammi-Jo had shared her mother's unfailing confidence in officers of the law. Abigail had confessed to her once that she was attracted to older men who worked in law enforcement in no small part because they made her feel safe, and reminded her of her own father, Clayton Fuller, who had been the town sheriff. It was certainly an obvious pattern in her relationships – Will Kinman had been six years older, and was the deputy in Potterville, where Abigail had grown up and Sammi-Jo had spent her early years. Philip Mililani was even older, nine years her senior, and had been a Chicago police officer until his early retirement in '91. Abigail had an unshakable faith that the men in her life could make every problem go away, and while Sammi-Jo was far less naïve, she too had grown up feeling confident in the dependability of the men who helped her mother to weather the storms of her life. Ever since that dreadful time when the lawyer (well, come to think of it, _he_  was a law enforcement officer of sorts too!) Mr. Stanton had saved Abigail from the death penalty for the murder of that ghastly Leta Aider woman. He'd made a young, scared Sammi-Jo remember things she would rather have left forgotten - the sounds and the sights of that awful day when Leta had slit her own throat in their kitchen – terrible enough that the memory of them all these years later caused her to shudder. It had all been to the good in the end, though, for her testimony had helped prove her mother innocent.

Yet now, just as Clayton had perished in the fire he'd saved his daughter from, Philip had died defending Abigail from burglars. Or so it had seemed. At this point, Officer Cutler threw doubt on that assessment.

"I'm sorry, I know this must be distressing for you," he soothed, giving her a moment to wipe her eyes on her handkerchief and compose herself, "I never had the privilege of working with your father, he retired before I joined the force, but I can tell you that down at the precinct he is still spoken of with great admiration. He was a very well respected Officer."

"Thank you," S-J acknowledged through her tears.

"Did he ever speak to you, or to anyone in your family, about his job? The cases he worked on?"

Sammi-Jo realized that he was not making idle conversation. He had a point to make.

"You don't think this was just a random burglary gone wrong, do you? You suspect it has something to do with one of Dad's old cases?"

"I was told you were a very astute young lady," Cutler informed her, and she blushed slightly. "Indeed, your mother has managed to give us a very good description of the assailants, and from what she has told us we have every reason to believe that we may be able to put names to those descriptions, even though they will have aged quite a bit."

"Dad handled one or two fairly, uh, how shall I put it… high profile cases. He took down some big time bad guys. I don't think he was ever involved in capturing anyone Mob related though, if that's what you're getting at."

"Oh no! I can neither confirm nor deny any such involvement on Officer Mililani's part, of course, but this doesn't have the hallmarks of a Mob hit. The bullet would have been through the  _back_  of the head if it had been a contract killing."

Sammi-Jo thought the young man was sounding as if he'd watched one too many cheesy cop shows on TV.

"Dad helped convict a lot of people, some of them for a long time. I guess he made quite a few enemies."

Lewis Cutler nodded.

"Any names come to mind? Any particular offenders who might have sworn revenge as they were taken down?"

Sammi-Jo engaged her photographic memory, trying to recall names and faces from the past.

"Stefan, uh, Stefan somebody…. Espinosa, I think. He ran a brothel using foreign girls, some of them well under age…" Sammi-Jo shuddered again, "Slimy little creep."

Cutler shook his head; this was not the name he was fishing for.

"Anyone else?"

"Like I said, probably quite a few," Sammi-Jo repeated, as she tried to recall other particulars.

Sammi-Jo began listing those names and offenses she could recall, the policeman's face telling her that she had not yet verified their suspicions based on the descriptions Abigail had provided.

"Perhaps if I could see a composite, or read the descriptions?" she suggested.

"We don't want to influence you unduly." Officer Cutler explained.

Sammi-Jo tried again.

"There was a cocaine trafficker, Bryan Mohane; he went down for fifteen years and was reported to have said Dad better watch his back when he got out. I seem to remember that in '96 Dad helped put him back behind bars for attempted murder, even though he'd been retired for years. Then there was a guy who had a really lucrative illegal gambling operation that Dad helped to bust, Burrows, that was him, Ian Burrows. He was pretty vocal about what he'd like to do to those who put a stop to his game." She stopped to think.

"Oh yeah, and Klaus Baum, real nasty piece of work. Conned widowed old ladies into leaving him everything in their wills, then killed them. He threatened to make a widow of my Mom…oh and…"

Sammi-Jo went on to name three or four more villains who had been less than complimentary in their descriptions of her father and their feelings toward him.

"Thank you, Doctor Fuller, you have been extremely helpful," Officer Cutler told her, when she informed him that she had exhausted her list of potential suspects.

She was not sure if she had confirmed the suspicions, and the policeman wouldn't reveal if she had hit the mark, but she thought she had caught a reaction to a couple of names that he hadn't quite managed to mask. She resolved to ask Ziggy to do some digging once she got back to New Mexico, but right now she had other priorities.

"Then, if there's nothing else, I'd  _really_ like to go and see my mother now," she responded, not unkindly. She sincerely wanted to help capture the low-life scum who'd killed Philip Mililani and seriously injured her mother.

"Of course," the policeman acknowledged. "Just one more question, and then I'll show you to her room myself."

Sammi-Jo looked at him quizzically.

"To your knowledge," he got right to the point, "did any of these uh 'gentlemen' ever issue threats against yourself or the rest of your family, in addition to Officer Mililani?"

"You think my brothers and I could be in danger?" Sammi-Jo asked in alarm. Her concern for her mother had blotted all other thoughts from her mind. She wasn't worried on her own account, despite having to answer 'yes' to more than one villain, but her brothers, she couldn't bear the thought of losing them too.

As they walked along, Cutler filled her in at her request on the added details he'd gleaned from his interview with the victim, given, he told her, with great courage.

It seemed that Abigail had survived thus far by a fluke of fate. At the time the 'burglars' had forced an entry into their home, she had been answering a call of nature, and so had not been asleep in bed beside her husband as expected.

She had heard the breaking glass by which they gained access, and had cried out to awaken her husband. He came to his senses just as the two men burst into their bedroom, and called out a warning to her to run downstairs and phone for help.

These were the last words he ever spoke, as the sound of a gunshot marked the end of his life, though she had not known it for sure at the time.

Abigail had taken up her cue and rushed to get help, but the sound of the shot startled and alarmed her to the point that she missed her footing and fell down the stairs, breaking her hip.

As she tried to crawl toward the phone, the two men had descended the stairs after her, and stood over her terrified body, gloating. They were not wearing masks, no stockings to distort their features, or balaclavas with slits for eyes. It was as if they'd wanted to be recognized.

One pointed his gun at Abigail and laughed at the fear in her eyes as he twitched his finger on the trigger. The other stalled him, saying in a slight foreign accent ,

"Not yet. A kiss before dying for the pretty lady, I think."

He had knelt down and kissed Abigail on the forehead gently, and then more forcefully full on the mouth. She had been unable to prevent him, or move out of his reach. She had told Officer Cutler that this 'assault' had been more intimidating, more terrifying than the waving of the gun in her face.

"That must have been Baum!" Sammi-Jo interrupted suddenly, feeling sick to her stomach. "It was his trademark. The press even called him the "Kissing Killer", as I recall." Sammi-Jo clutched the officer's arm, pressing home her point animatedly.

"It  **has**  to have been Klaus Baum!"

"Maybe so," replied the officer calmly and in a non-committal tone. "Though it seems that what happened next was that the second man decided he wanted to join in. He told the other that Mililani owed him for a total of 24 years of his life, spent inside because of his 'meddling', and that your mother was going to give him a little compensation…"

Sammi-Jo gasped. She had turned deathly pale. "Y-you're n-not gonna tell me that he… he…" She couldn't bring herself to say it aloud, but she didn't need to.

"No, no," Cutler reassured her hastily, "mercifully, he didn't go  **that**  far. But he too bent over her helpless body and kissed her on the mouth. She didn't say so specifically, but I think she must have feared…well, exactly what you just assumed; she told me it was almost a relief when he broke off a long, harsh passionless kiss and without any warning punctuated it with a bullet to her thigh."

Sammi-Jo froze to the spot for a moment; she was starting to appreciate what he had meant by her mother being in a bad way. Then she quickened her pace, forcing her companion to do the same. She needed to be with her mother.

Cutler put a gently restraining hand on her arm, slowing her slightly.

"You should know, there's more," he warned, his tone once more apologetic.

Sammi-Jo looked into his eyes, afraid of what she was going to hear, but needing to hear it nonetheless. She wanted to know everything before she saw for herself.

"We're almost there, so I'll give you the bottom line rather than the full story," Cutler told her, aware that he had already kept her from her mother for a long time. And time was a commodity that may well be in short supply for them. She nodded her appreciation, continuing to look him in the eye.

"By the time the neighbor found Mrs. Mililani, they had between them shot her twice more, point blank. The doctor told me that they had to remove one of her kidneys because it was so badly damaged."

Sammi-Jo swayed and the officer put out a steadying hand.

"Are you okay, Dr. Fuller?" he asked, his professional manner replaced by a more 'human' touch.

She nodded, and bade him continue. Cutler didn't let loose her arm, but offered his support as he imparted the rest of his information, gently and apologetically.

"No doubt they'll fill you in on all the medical details, but your mother evidently has some serious internal injuries, and has lost a lot of blood. I wouldn't have even thought of trying to interview her so soon after surgery if she hadn't  _insisted_ on making a statement. Her condition is still critical. I'm sorry, but you should know she told me she needed to talk to me  _now_ , as she didn't think she'd  **have**  a  _later_. I had to respect her fear that there wouldn't be more time."

Sammi-Jo's hand flew to her mouth, in an attempt to stifle the cry that threatened to burst from her lips. She shook her head in denial.

"For what it's worth," Lewis the fresh faced young man, rather than Cutler the Officer, told her, "I really hope she's wrong on that score. She's one heck of a brave woman; I'd love for her to defy the odds and live to see those two bas... .uh pardon me, those two 'bad guys' pay for what they've done to your family."

"Thank you," whispered Sammi-Jo softly, not trusting herself to speak aloud.

At this point they arrived at Abigail's room, and Officer Cutler opened the door for her to go in at last.

"Go to her, Dr Fuller. She needs you now as much as you need her. I think a part of her has given up because she's lost her husband. Remind her she has children to live for."

"I will. Thank you again." Taking her leave of him without further ado, Sammi-Jo took a deep breath, and ventured inside, horrified despite the warnings at just how frail her mother looked, dwarfed by all the machinery she was hooked up to.

At her arrival, her brothers stood from where they had been flanking their mother, both of their faces streaked with tearstains.

Daniel bent and gently moved a wisp of stray hair from her eye, while Alex tenderly kissed the back of her hand. Sammi-Jo did not fail to register that neither kissed Abigail on the forehead, or on the face at all. She could well imagine them trying to do so on arrival, and being horrified at their mother's terrified reaction. Unless of course, they had been forewarned as she had.

"We'll be back soon, Momma," Alex told her softly. "Sammi-Jo's here now to see you." He smiled down at the fragile form on the bed, but there was a profound sadness in his still moist eyes.

Daniel moved forward and embraced his sister tightly, hugging her even closer than he had done when she first arrived.

"Oh, sis!" he whispered. "Momma's saying her goodbyes. She says… she thinks..." He began sobbing, unable to pass on his mother's thoughts. Sammi-Jo patted his shoulder comfortingly, though she was in serious need of some comfort herself.

The nurse checking Abigail's monitors and tubes reminded them gently but firmly that only two visitors at a time were permitted in the room.

Alex joined them, took his turn at giving his big sister a hug, and then drew Daniel away.

"Let's give S-J some time with Mom, Danny. It's only fair."

Danny nodded, and they withdrew, leaving Sammi-Jo tentatively approaching the bed, though a part of her wanted to race across the room in a single bound.

The nurse finished her routine checks and made the appropriate observations on the patient's notes, then took a seat at a respectful distance from the bed, to give the young woman room to sit with her mother without intrusion, yet close enough to be on hand if she were needed.

She smiled at Sammi-Jo understandingly, and the smile was returned, albeit a little thinly.

Sammi-Jo took hold of Abigail's hand and stroked it gently, blinking back her tears. She could barely recognize her mother, so fragile and pale, so small beneath the cage that kept the covers from pressing on her broken hip; so reliant on all the machines she was hooked up to, and looking so much older than her 58 years.

"I'll…always… love you… Sammi-Jo Fuller… never… forget that." Abigail seemed determined to get this across, while she was still able.

"I know, Momma, I love you too. But you'll have plenty of chances to remind me. You should rest now." Sammi-Jo didn't believe it any more than Abigail did, despite the forced cheerfulness of her tone. In fact, looking at her mother, Dr. Fuller was amazed that she'd managed to hang on this long.

Mrs. Mililani shook her head sadly in denial. She knew her time was short, she was just glad she'd managed to last long enough to see all her children once more. All her surviving children, that was. Candace would be waiting with Phil to welcome her to heaven, if she was lucky. Her eyes fell upon the little silver cross that glinted at Sammi-Jo's throat, and it brought a feeble smile to her lips.

"Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. I should never have moved away. I should've been there to look after you both. If only I'd been there…"

Abigail snatched a breath and cut in, "I'm glad… you weren't."

Sammi-Jo frowned, perplexed.

"They might… have killed… you… too," her mother explained haltingly, evidently exhausted by the effort of talking. A lone tear escaped from the corner of her mother's eye, and Sammi-Jo brushed it away tenderly.

"Hush now," she soothed. "Rest. You should sleep, get your strength back." How she was keeping her own tears at bay was a mystery to Sammi-Jo.

"Phil… he was… my… st-strength," whispered Abigail.

"You still have Danny, and Alex," her daughter reminded her, "and me." She gave the pale hand a gentle reassuring squeeze.

Abigail looked into her eyes, and slowly blinked an acknowledgement.

"I'm blessed… to have…" she admitted.

"Though… I n-never… saw…  _that_  look… in… boy's eyes."

"What look, Momma?" Sammi-Jo glanced at the nurse; afraid her mother was starting to drift into the realms of incomprehensible ramblings. The nurse merely shrugged.

"Whenever… I was… in t-trouble…" Abigail was fighting for every word, but determined nonetheless. "Daddy… Will…Mr. Stanton… Phil, that… t-time we… nearly… l-lost you…"

Like her sister, Candace, Sammi-Jo had once been involved in a serious car crash. It had very nearly claimed her life. Her stepfather's had been the first face she'd seen when she finally came out of her coma, here in this very hospital.

Abigail was still struggling to make her point.

"…All… had… same… look… Reminded me… almost… as if…" a single slight shake of her head, as if denying the very thing she was suggesting, "…like… all… shared… same… soul…" Abigail sighed, gulping for breath.

Sammi-Jo's head began to swim.

Surely it was just her mother's penchant for lawmen that made her see similarities? Any other caring relative would think so. Yet Sammi-Jo had another, unique perspective. She had experience of something that suggested a different possibility. Could it be? Could it possibly be? _Four_  times,  _four_  lives - surely not? She had never seen records of more than two visits to the same group of people, and even that was rare.

Memories flooded into Sammi-Jo's photographic memory brain, ringing alarm bells.

" _I'm very glad you're here Mr. **Sam**  Larry Stanton. Very glad!" _she'd told him, when the lawyer had introduced himself.

Yet others had referred to him as Lawrence Stanton the Third. Where had the  **Sam**  come from? Was it possible that Doctor Beckett had leapt into Larry Stanton to change her life, that he was the one who made her remember Leta's suicide, thereby saving Abigail from the electric chair? It was exactly the sort of thing he was in the habit of doing, so why not?

A later conversation surfaced in her memory.

_"Brigadoon... Brigadoon...That was one of my favorite stories too."_

_"Mine too!" said Sammi-Jo excited. "My grandmamma says she likes it when the old reverend asks God for a miracle and he makes Brigadoon disappear for a hundred years."_

_Her face lit up as she talked to him about her favorite part, which happened to be where the town was called back early._

_"Do you believe in miracles Mr. Stanton?" Sammi-Jo asked innocently._

_"Miracles?" he asked her._

_"That someone, if they **really**  loved somebody, could go back in time and be part of their lives?"_

_"Well if that's a miracle, then yes, I believe in miracles."_

There had been a strange, knowing look in his eye as he said it. She just hadn't recognized it for what it meant at the time.

_"I wanna go back in time someday," Sammi-Jo told him. "I wanna meet my daddy. I wanna tell him..." Sammi-Jo stopped, embarrassed to finish what she was going to say._

_"Tell him what?" Sam Larry Stanton had asked, earnestly._

As if it were the most important thing in the world for  **him**  to know.

Sammi-Jo gasped. A new possible revelation invaded her consciousness. It wasn't possible, it couldn't be. And yet, what the lawyer had said after she'd answered,

_"Just that I love him... but he knows... My grandma Fuller says he knows and she knows everything!"_

_"Sammi-Jo Fuller, I love you, and I want you to know that everything's going to be okay!" he said, kissed her on the forehead, and got up._

_"Where you going?" Sammi-Jo asked him._

_"I'm going to tell your grandmamma that it's okay to remember!" he told her. She smiled at him as she watched him leave._

Why would the lawyer have said he loved the little girl? How could he have known with such certainty that things would work out? In her naïveté she had not thought about it at the time. Yet now?

Sammi-Jo Fuller had an IQ of 194. She was way smarter than any female of the Fuller family, or the Lanchette line. Her Momma had always said she wondered where she got her smarts.

From her father, she'd always assumed. Yet then again, she'd always assumed her father to be Will Kinman.

"Momma?" she asked hesitantly. "When did Will's eyes look that way?"

Deep in her heart she already knew the answer, but she still needed to hear it spelled out. Needed it so badly that it over-rode her concern that her mother should not tax herself.

"That… business… the Takins boy…"

Sammi-Jo nodded, that was the time…

"When your wedding was postponed?" She'd heard the stories. Growing up in Potter Parish those early years, Leta Aider had made sure the stories circulated. How she had been born out of wedlock. How Will had taken off soon after their aborted wedding day.

Abigail was fighting the pain-dulling meds, yet thoughts of Will as he was then were positively energizing her. A huge smile etched itself on her features.

"It was really… like he was… two diff-different people," she told her daughter.

"I know it sounds crazy."

"Not really, Momma, go on," Sammi-Jo encouraged her, her thoughts racing at a mile a minute.

Though she still had to pause often to catch her breath, Abigail willingly told Sammi-Jo now what she had not told a living soul since that time, and it felt good to talk about it.

"…I didn't care… that it was wicked… I wanted to be… with him. I wanted him… so badly… I couldn't wait one more day. Will…he felt the same."

Abigail looked past her daughter's face, as if she could see the events of her past playing out on the wall of the hospital room like an old movie.

"Even so, when we started…"

Sammi-Jo looked embarrassed, flushing deeply. A child never liked to hear about her parents making out, or worse still, making love. Yet shocked as she was by her mother's inappropriate openness, she was somehow hungry for every detail.

"It felt…not wrong… but  **wrong** …if you…"

"I think I understand," S-J assured her. She did - it was not the sin of premarital intercourse that felt wrong, the morality issue, it was the pairing itself. Though Abigail had experienced no other partner for comparison, she sensed that they were not meant for each other. This did not fit with what Sammi-Jo had believed all her life, but her mother's wording led her to believe there was something more to come. Something unexpected and… terrible? Wonderful? How  **did**  she feel about it? She was not entirely sure, it was such a big thing to take in, but Sammi-Jo was starting to play around with the possibility in her mind, and so far, it was at least intriguing.

"I can't explain…but part way through…something seemed to click…and it changed. Maybe we just… got the hang of it? Anyway, suddenly… it couldn't have been… more right. We were… soul mates."

Sammi-Jo didn't have a long-term loving partner to compare experiences with. She was not completely ignorant of worldly matters though, and felt sure that even a first time could not magically transform so completely mid-way. Not in normal circumstances.

Without being able to explain, even to herself, how she could be so sure, Sammi-Jo was convinced that the reason Will had seemed like two different people around that time was because he was. Sam had leaped into Will at that very delicate moment, and he had been the one who felt so right.

It made perfect sense. Leta Aider had riled up the mob over the disappearance of the Doctor's son. They had burst in on Abigail and Will, in bed together. Will had been knocked out, and her mother taken to be hanged.

The story was common knowledge, and again, Leta had delighted in throwing the details in young Sammi-Jo's face at every opportunity. How wanton her mother was; how wicked. How the whole family was cursed.

What if, first time around, Will had not recovered enough to stop the lynch mob?

She, Sammi-Jo would never have been born. It was a startling thought, and even as she listened to her mother's recollections, Sammi-Jo was vowing to find out if Ziggy had concealed any Leap records from her. She was sure that if she asked the right questions, all her suppositions would be confirmed.

Sammi-Jo reached for the jug of water that stood beside her mother's bed, and helped herself to a tumbler full. She glanced, embarrassed at the nurse, suddenly aware that they were discussing deeply personal issues in front of a stranger. The nurse smiled at her glance, but gave no indication that she had heard anything untoward. They had, after all been speaking softly, Abigail incapable of much volume.

As Abigail recounted how her hero Will had saved her life that night, telling the crowd where the boy could be found, Sammi-Jo ticked off another piece of evidence in the puzzle. How had she not seen it before? Al and Ziggy must have tracked down the child, and relayed the information to Sam in time to save her mother. It was all so glaringly obvious!

In her own defense, Sammi-Jo realized that she had not given the events of her family history much thought since joining Project Quantum Leap – an appointment that now made much more sense. As did other things, such as Donna's initial hostility towards her. But that was for another time, when she was back in New Mexico. For now, she had more than enough to occupy her racing mind.

"…all over…Will said… strange thing…" her mother was saying.

"What did he say, Momma?" Sammi-Jo tried not to sound too eager.

"…said…' _I don't have… a lot of time.'_ I didn't…understand."

Sammi-Jo felt sure  _she_  did. Sam had achieved his mission and was about to Leap. It was  **all** adding up.

"Will s-said… ' _I love you… No matter what happens… or whatever I say… in the future, just know… that in this brief moment of time… we belong to each other_ _. Please know that'_ Yet he…left me."

Abigail looked profoundly sad as she said this, adding, "It was… like he was…some alien who'd… snatched Will's body… about to…return…to space…"

Sammi-Jo almost laughed aloud. 'You're closer to the truth than you could possibly imagine, Momma,' she thought. She also absorbed the fact that Sam had declared his love for her mother. She was glad of that. She had been conceived through true love, not lust.

There was no way she could explain what she suspected, even if it wasn't classified. She found herself torn more and more between concern for her mother's plight and the desire to verify her suspicions. Her mind was in turmoil, trying to grasp the implications of this discovery.

'Slow down' she told herself silently, 'give yourself time to assimilate all this information'. It wasn't easy. This was, well it was just such a big deal.

Talk about bombshells. She'd had so many in the past few short yet interminable hours - the news of her stepfather's murder; her mother's condition; the possibility that her brothers may be in danger. All that was more than enough for any young woman to have to deal with.

Yet now on top of all that, the possibility that not only had Sam Beckett leapt into Abigail's life on at least four separate occasions, but that he was her biological father. 'Oh come on, S-J, it's more than possible, it's  _gotta_  be true,' she realized. Even more so, she acknowledged that in addition to giving her life, he had  _saved_  her life—it seemed logical that the car crash had once upon a time been fatal to her!

With an IQ of 194 it was easy enough for her to put two and two together. Both her head and her heart told her it was true. Though a nagging annoyance crossed her mind that Al had kept the facts from her, she found that she was thrilled at the thought. She had long admired the Leaping Genius on many levels. She would be proud to call him father.

Father.

A deep shuddering breath escaped her lips. She had lost one father and gained another in less than 24 hours.

"Oh boy!" she whispered.


	7. Six

**San Francisco**

Sam had only just made it home by Emiko's curfew time.

He'd insisted on seeing Yasuo safely home first, and it had taken them a while to get away from the rest of the gang, who had all been congratulating Sam on having saved Tammy's life, and vociferously admiring his martial arts skills. Natural modesty and the desire not to inflame Tad further led him to brush aside all praise, but it had continued to be heaped upon him nonetheless.

Even Yasuo noticed how Tad was getting madder and madder at the new boy being the centre of attention, and thankfully didn't resist when Sam tried to lead him away from all the fuss.

"Why  **does**  he hate me so much?" Sam asked, as he slipped his socks and skates back on, looking to both Al and Yasuo to answer him.

"I really don't know, Kaz," Yasuo apologized.

"No idea," Al admitted, having consulted his hand link.

Once outside, Al had informed Sam of Tammy's prognosis in more detail, reassuring the Leaper that he had not only saved the young lady's life, but had minimized the negative effects of her experience. Sam merely nodded in acknowledgement, pleased to have helped.

Yasuo added his voice to the praise, telling Kaz that he had never seen him fight so well, and his actions with Tamiko had been "outstanding." He was hero-worshipping his friend now, in the same way as he had been extolling the virtues of the gang before. Sam decided to use this to his advantage, and spent the entire journey home trying to persuade Yasuo that they would both be better off away from a gang whose activities were as potentially lethal as theirs had been that evening.

Yas was nursing some nasty bruises from the tussle, but was still enamored of the gang life. He would not hear a word said against the Cobras, and wouldn't entertain for a second even the slightest thought of severing contact with them.

"This is no Little League Team, Yas," Sam pointed out. "These guys play for keeps, and their games can get pretty rough. In case you didn't pick up on it, Tammy very nearly  _died_  in that gym tonight."

"I hear you, Kaz," acknowledged Yasuo, "but it only proves  **my**  point. Tammy's gonna be fine, thanks to  _you_. That's what I'm talking about – Family - looking out for one another. That's what the Cobras do. That's what I love so much about them, and you just proved tonight how right I was to join, and even more right to talk you into joining with me."

Sam stole a glance at Al, and they simultaneously rolled their eyes. The kid was impossible. He was going to take an inordinate amount of persuading to leave the bosom of this surrogate 'family' he'd adopted himself into.

Sam had no more time to work toward that end as they arrived at Yas' house and he took his leave – and Sam's uniform once more – with a cheery "See you at school, bro!" as if nothing remotely noteworthy had happened.

Having dashed home, and avoided having to give any details of his activities by virtue of the nagging he got for sneaking out without having finished _all_  his chores satisfactorily, Sam made amends and headed for bed.

Sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling off his socks – the skates having been shed in the hall where they were donned – Sam sighed wearily.

"How on Earth am I gonna talk Yasuo into leaving the Cobras, Al? He's practically a one-man fan club!"

"What was your first clue?" teased Al, though he knew it was really no laughing matter. He had a pretty good idea what Sam was going to have to do in order to get Yasuo out of the Cobras, but he was damned if he was going to admit it just yet, not while there was still time to find an easier way.

"Don't sweat it, Sam, it's only mid-week, you got 'til Sunday," he encouraged.

"Yeah, I just hope there aren't going to be any more near-death experiences in the meantime!" By now Sam had stripped off his shirt, and headed for the bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth.

"Amen to that, buddy!" Al could empathize. First there had been his own close call with the dunking and the Jump In, and then Tammy. It had not been an easy Leap thus far, and it threatened to get far worse before it was over.

Al had been about to take his leave, and let his friend finish preparing for bed in privacy when Ziggy squealed once more.

"Oh, no! Don't tell me!" protested Sam, gesticulating expansively to display his frustration.

"'Fraid so," countered Al, as he assimilated the information Ziggy was feeding to him.

"What now? Or should I say who? And while I'm at it, where, when, and how?" Sam asked resignedly.

"Tomorrow evening. The convenience store – you know, the one you were at earlier?"

Sam nodded.

"The Chinese proprietor, Mr. Peng, is going to be stabbed to death by Tadayuki."

"Ohhh boy!"

**Wednesday 25th February 1976**

Unsurprisingly, Ziggy had furnished Sam with just enough information to cause him concern, but far short of sufficient to facilitate him in averting the impending tragedy. Sam was starting to see a pattern to this Leap, and though it would suit his taste far better were it plain and simple, he knew that such was rarely if ever his lot.

A black feeling descended upon him as he settled in for a night of fretting interspersed with troubled nightmares. Had he known what Al knew, his nightmares would have taken on a degree of terror that would have Freddie Kruger's offerings pale to the realms of mere idle daydreams.

Thus Sam arose on Wednesday morning feeling far from refreshed, and worried his way through his morning lessons.

He had immediately determined to be at the store at the appointed hour of course, but this in itself soon presented him with a problem. Over their Bento boxes at lunch, Yasuo had asked Sam his plans for the evening, and when he'd innocently said he had some provisions to get for Emiko, Yas had offered to accompany him and help carry them home. Sam could not possibly decline the offer by telling Yas the truth about what was going to happen without sounding as if he was totally off his head. He tried saying that it wasn't necessary, since he had nothing heavy to buy, but Yas was still full of adulation for his friend's skills, and eager to be seen in his company, so that he may bask in reflected glory.

Indeed, Yas had evidently been singing Kazuo's praises to anyone who would listen throughout the morning. Sam had been forced to field numerous questions about what had happened, and how he had saved Tammy's life, and had declined several challenges to show off his 'cool moves'. He'd even been forced to give a demonstration during the gym lesson, since the instructor would not take no for an answer. Both pupils and teacher had been suitably awed by his exhibition, and the class had roared uproariously when he had thrown 'Coach' and pinned him down in a dazzling display of dexterity and skill.

He was surprised that when he was kept back at the end of the lesson it was not so that he could be punished for his audacity. He had apologized sincerely, but the teacher had been so impressed that he was unable to be cross.

"It should be the aim of any good instructor to have his pupil surpass him," Coach Peterson told him, clapping him on the back. "I  _am_ concerned with how the incident I heard about came about, though. Are you involved with some sort of gang, Kazuo, because…"

"I know, sir, gangs are dangerous. They can get a kid killed. Believe me, I know  _exactly_  where gang membership is likely to get me," Sam told him sincerely, though in truth, Al could have proved him woefully wrong on that score. "Trust me, sir, I know what I'm doing."

"I hope so, Sakaguchi. You've always been a smart kid and sensible too. I'll say no more about it now, but remember, if you do get yourself into a jam, there are people here who can help. Myself included. If you ever feel like there's something you need to tell me…"

"Thank you, sir, I appreciate that, and I'll remember it, but I'm fine, honestly."

"At least you seem reasonably able to handle yourself, I'll give you that." Peterson patted him on the back again, "Now scoot, or you'll be late."

"Yes sir!"

Sam liked Coach Peterson. He admired the way that he had been supportive without prying. For a moment, Sam had considered enlisting his help with Yasuo, but he was afraid that if it backfired, Yas could become alienated, and harder than ever to reach. Dr. Beckett's Leaps had taught him all too clearly that well-meaning 'interference' from an adult could sometimes be the least helpful way of trying to get through to a teenager in a scrape. Winning their confidence was a far better strategy.

Sam tried similar roundabout methods of keeping Yasuo from going with him to the convenience store, but with less success. He resolved in the end to take comfort in the reassurance Al had given him in the gym. Yasuo was destined to be fatally wounded on Sunday, so he should be safe until then.

Perhaps witnessing whatever unpleasantness occurred that Sam was going to have to keep from becoming a murder would help persuade the young man of the pitfalls of gang membership. It could work to his advantage after all.

Bolstered by this thought, Sam sailed through the afternoon's lessons without incident, and once home soon polished off his homework and his chores.

Mealtime saw him on his best behavior, saying " _Itadakimasu_ " at the start of the meal, and " _Gochisou sam deshita_ " when he had finished eating, which earned him a huge smile from " _sobo_ ", and a playful pat on the arm for his flattery.

It did not take much guile to find a couple of essential provisions that could not wait until the next weekly shop, and volunteer to fetch them. Emiko was pleasantly surprised and impressed by her grandson's thoughtfulness, which meant Sam had to endure her slobbering kisses of praise before he could get out of the house. As he felt her pride in him, Sam once more felt the shame of lying to the sweet old lady. He just hoped he would not be the cause of any more heartache for her. It must have taken tremendous courage for her to leave her native country and everything familiar to her, to raise a young grandson she barely knew. She deserved to be treated with respect.

**Later...**

This time, Sam got to the trouble spot ahead of the trouble.

The proprietor nodded a friendly greeting to the older of the two boys - who was one of his regular customers - which Sam returned.

The shop was more or less deserted when they arrived, save for a little old Chinese lady who was shuffling around peering at the wares through bespectacled eyes.

Having made his own purchases – a box of matches and some batteries which he slipped into his pocket - by unspoken agreement, both Sam and Yasuo moved to help her, being careful to announce their offer of aid so that she would not think they were trying to mug her. Though at first wary of the two young men, the diminutive Asian woman soon saw the sincerity of their intentions and gratefully accepted their assistance.

By the time the next customer – a young mother with a fractious toddler in tow - was browsing the shop, Sam was helping the elderly woman to pack her purchases in a strong brown bag, and urging Yas to carry it home for her. Whilst he still thought it could help his cause to have Yas see the ugly side of the gang, he was aware how quickly history could change around him, and wanted both the young man and the old woman out of harm's way.

His plan was thwarted, however, when she assured the boys that she lived very close to the store, and was in no hurry, and they weren't to trouble themselves further, though she was most appreciative of their efforts and their kindness. She gave them a formal bow of gratitude.

Yas saw her to the door of the store, where he passed her bag back to her, smiling first at her, then at the sight of Tad and his Acolytes approaching the shop.

"Hey, Kaz, look who's coming!" he enthused, waving at the gang in hearty greeting.

"Yeah, great," Sam mumbled sarcastically under his breath. The estimated time of death for the storekeeper had been getting so close that he was almost daring to hope something else had prevented Tad from coming, and so averted the murder. He should have known things were never that simple or convenient.

Instantly alert and on edge, Sam joined Yasuo and led the boy back into the shop, where he hovered near the counter, wanting to be near the proprietor when trouble, in the form of Tad, struck.

The gang and their girlfriends sauntered in casually, looking innocent and chatting idly about this and that; giving no hint of the trouble that was somehow brewing beneath the surface and about to boil over into homicide. Sam hung back, determined he would not be the cause of inflaming Tad's temper. Yasuo broke away and engaged in conversation with one of the younger members of the group as they ambled around the aisles, picking up and discarding random objects. Sam noticed that one or two of the boys pocketed some small items and whilst his instinct was to alert the shopkeeper, he held his tongue, still intent on keeping the proceedings peaceful. He'd make restitution somehow later, even if it meant working off the debt at the weekend, sweeping the floor or re-stocking shelves.

Tad was pointedly ignoring his existence, though he acknowledged Yasuo, and even bestowed a smile on him.

Yasuo asked after Tammy, and was told that Matanaru had barely left her side. She was doing well, it seemed, and inevitably the girls began engaging Sam in conversation, heaping praises on him once more for his quick thinking and skilled surgery.

'Thanks a lot, Yas,' mused Sam silently, 'so much for keeping my head down.'

He did his best to smile and nod, and steer the conversation away from himself.

Tellingly, though he was the oldest of the group in the absence of their King, Tad was the only one to have come in without a girl on his arm. He seemed pleased that neither Yas nor the new boy were paired up, yet still his single status made him obviously morose. Sam was careful not to draw attention to the situation. He could see in the boy's eyes that he was a coiled spring ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

By this time, the group had gathered all they required - both openly and underhandedly - and were converging on the counter. The harassed mother who had preceded them into the shop was already there, struggling to get her wallet out of her handbag without letting go of her wriggling, squirming, sniveling child who was protesting in a whine that he was tired and wanted chocolate.

"Someone should shut that brat up," snarled Tad menacingly, adding in a lower tone, "permanently!" He looked anxious to oblige.

"Out of my way, snot-ball!"

Tad suddenly jostled the child aside with such force that he fell to the floor, breaking free of his mother and screaming loudly enough to perforate eardrums at twenty paces. "You too, bitch!" he shot at the mother, who was trying to retrieve her distressed offspring. He elbowed her hard, so that she struggled not to fall on top of her son.

Mr. Peng was alone in running the shop. He had no family of his own, and did not make enough money to hire much in the way of staff. He had a woman who helped out for a couple of hours a day during his busy periods, but the rest of the time, it was a case of doing everything himself. This was not normally one of his busy times.

He did not like to see the impatience of these young men in their Cobra decorated leather jackets, most of whom were goading their leader on or laughing with him. Only the two boys who had come in first, who obviously knew them, and one of whom shared their uniform, seemed to disapprove of his actions and his words. They were different; he'd already seen that in how helpful they had been to Mrs. Kuok.

It was at this point that Al put in an appearance, way overdue as usual in Sam's opinion. Al could sense the tension in the air, and rather unnecessarily warned,

"Careful, Sam, stay sharp."

Sam merely glared at him, as if to say 'I could concentrate better on what's happening if you weren't making puerile comments.'

He appreciated Al being there, and knew that there was usually a very good reason for his late arrival – even if Al tried to pretend it was something trivial or sexual that had delayed him to spare Sam's feelings or keep him from worrying about problems back home. He appreciated all Al did for him, but the hologram could still be irritating at times. Or maybe it was just that Sam needed somewhere to deflect his stress, and Al was a convenient target.

"Please. You have to wait turn! Not Year of Snake for another year," Peng laughed good-naturedly at his own little joke. Though the Chinese New Year celebrations had finished, one or two dragon artifacts had not been sold, and lingered on a shelf at the back.

He wanted the boys to show more respect to the young lady and her son, but he tried to keep it light-hearted. He didn't want any trouble.

"Hey, that's funny, Sam!" commented Al jovially, "Turns out Ziggy says  _you_  were born in the Year of the Snake! Hmm, what does that say about you…?" Al turned to his hand-link, musing on how he could gather ammunition to tease his friend further.

Unfortunately, Tad did not see the humor in the old man's remark. In fact, he took it as a deliberate insult, and instantly drew his flick-knife, pouncing forward across the counter to strike at the old man.

Tad growled furiously, "How dare you…"

"He didn't mean anything by it," Sam hastily tried to placate Tad, reaching up instinctively and grabbing Tad by the wrist - as the boy had done to him in the gym - to stop the weapon reaching its intended target.

At the sight of the knife, the woman grabbed her screaming child, hoisting him up into her arms, and - heedless of her intended purchases - hurried from the shop before any of the gang could make a move to stop her.

Tad shifted his look of hatred and contempt from the shopkeeper to Sam. The muscles in his neck were twitching with repressed tension, his fingers clenching his knife with equal ferocity.

"He insulted us, Sakaguchi," Tad spat through clenched teeth. "I swore an oath to stand up for the Cobras,  _as did you_." His look now became a malicious glint.

He relaxed his hand a little, and as he expected, Sam did too, though not enough to let him completely free.

"Mat thinks you're such a  _hero_." He said the word as if it were an insult. "All I keep hearing is what a great Cobra you are. Well now's your chance to prove it -to  **me**." He nodded to his knife, his meaning clear.  _Sam_  was to make the Chinese shopkeeper pay for his alleged insult.

Sam was about to protest, and offer to get the old man to apologize, when Al caught his attention.

"Uh-oh, Sam, tread carefully here," Al warned. "Ziggy says history is in a state of flux; it's changing moment to moment. Don't do anything hasty."

Sam stalled for time by seeking clarification of Tad's suggestion.

"What  _exactly_  do you want me to do?" he asked, keeping his voice calm and level.

"I sorry, I mean no offence," Mr. Peng assured them sincerely. He didn't want any trouble for his shop, and the sight of the knife made him fearful for his life. Had it not been for the quick reaction of his regular customer, he was sure the sharp blade would be embedded in his heart by now.

Sam sighed with relief; surely this would defuse the situation.

Tad acted as if he hadn't heard. It was no longer about the shopkeeper and what he said or did. Now it was an opportunity to make Kazuo Sakaguchi look bad in front of the Cobras. The boy was soft. He would never strike at the old man. His cowardice and refusal to uphold the honor of the Cobras would get back to Mat. He'd make  **sure**  it got back in great detail, and from several sources. Kaz would be forced to Jump-out in shame. Or better yet, Tad would have the ideal excuse to finish the boy off once and for all: An example to the rest. Perfect. A crooked smile crossed Tad's lips, which he licked slowly and deliberately before he spoke.

"Skewer him." Tad commanded lowly, looking Sam directly in the eye, waiting to see him flinch and back down, and probably go green at the mere prospect. This was going to be fun.

Before Sam could live down to Tad's expectations, Al warned him sharply, to the accompaniment of the now familiar squeal from Ziggy,

"Zig says latest scenario is that if you refuse, Sam, Tad will still kill Peng like he did originally. Only now, he'll kill you and Yasuo too, for being traitors to the gang. Yas'll try to defend you when you defy Tad, and… well, it'll get pretty bloody, Sam."

Sam swallowed hard, blinking slowly. Somehow, he'd suspected something like this was coming.

"You don't have to _kill_  him, Sam. Just make it look good," Al advised reassuringly, "or should I say make it look bad." Al grinned sheepishly to hide his nervousness.

Tad's fingers twitching on the flick-knife made it clear that Sam didn't have the luxury of time to diffuse the situation with talk. He had to act, and he had to act quickly. His mind raced at a mile a minute while he calculated the best way to handle things to the greatest effect with the least damage.

"What's the matter? Not got the stomach for it?" Tad taunted with a sneer. "Just as I thought…" The kid looked horrified at the prospect of attacking the old man in cold blood. He was more chicken than Cobra, which suited Tad fine. He looked Sam straight in the eye again, a silent underlining to his challenge. "Now, are you gonna prove yourself worthy of that jacket you don't seem inclined to wear, or do I have to…"

Not giving Tad an opportunity to even contemplate the alternative, nor himself a moment to have second thoughts, Sam twisted his hand around, releasing his grip on Tad's wrist and in the same fluid movement wresting the knife from out of his hand. Before any of the assembly had a chance to realize what was happening, he followed through with his maneuver and swung his arm around, lunging at the unsuspecting shopkeeper and sinking the blade low into his left side. The old man looked at him with a puzzled expression as he crumpled to the floor.

"Satisfied?" Sam enquired simply, glaring at Tad before striding out of the door as if declaring that the matter was closed. Though he was shaking inside, he kept his back ramrod straight and his head held high. He was gambling that Tad would leave it at that, fearful of the woman shopper having summoned the police.

Yasuo scurried out in his wake, stuttering incoherently in disbelief at what he had just witnessed.

"Go home, Yas. I don't want to talk about it now. I'll see you tomorrow." Sam didn't even look at him.

Once the young man had rushed off, Sam turned to Al, who had also accompanied him from the shop.

"Are they following?" he whispered.

Al turned around.

"Yeah, they're all coming out. They're buzzing. You may wanna make yourself scarce. Try down here." Al pointed to a poorly lit alleyway.

"My thoughts exactly." Sam replied softly, heading swiftly to the hiding place Al had indicated, and ducking down behind a dumpster.

Without being asked, Al took point at the entrance to the alley, and watched until the gang had all departed completely from view.

"All clear!" he declared at last, after what seemed to Sam to be an age of barely daring to breathe.

"Sure?" Sam sought absolute confirmation.

"Definitely, buddy. They've all gone."

Sam rose shakily to his feet, and took a couple of hesitant steps toward Al.

"You okay, pal?" the Observer enquired. The light was appalling, but he knew with the certainty of experience that the Leaper was pale and trembling.

Sam didn't respond. Instead he broke into a run, heading back to the convenience store.

"What are you doing, Sam?" Al looked around nervously, needing to reassure himself of his own assertion that the gang had indeed left the scene of the crime.

Sam still didn't reply, but Al was smart enough to work it out. By the time he had caught up with his time traveling companion, Sam was already bending over the stricken shopkeeper, who was looking up with terrified eyes, scared witless that the boy he had thought to be the most honorable was in fact coming back to finish what he started.

Sam spoke to him reassuringly.

"It's okay; I'm not going to hurt you again. I'm really sorry. I only stabbed you to stop Tad. He would have killed you," Sam explained breathlessly. As he spoke, he opened the old man's shirt to examine the wound he had inflicted. Peng winced.

"Sorry," Sam said again. "I know it's painful, but I deliberately stabbed you there. It is the direct mirror image to the position the appendix is in on the other side. Over here…" As he spoke, he pressed on the oozing wound with a thick bundle of toilet paper grabbed from where the woman had left it on the counter. Peng groaned softly. "Over here, there are no vital organs. At least not at the depth I penetrated."

Peng nodded, showing he understood and appreciated the information.

"Do you have bandages here?" Sam asked.

"Aisle three." The old man's voice was husky with pain; the hand he used to point was trembling.

"Hold this." Sam took hold of the man's hand and placed it on the wad of soft paper. "Press against the wound as hard as you can bear."

So saying, Sam got up and raced to the indicated location, soon tracking down the supplies he needed.

In a few short minutes, Sam had cleaned, disinfected and dressed the wound, and made his victim as comfortable as possible. After which, he availed himself of the phone behind the counter and summoned an ambulance.

"How do you feel now?" he asked, bending down again and taking a cautious peek at his handiwork. The bleeding had not yet penetrated the dressing, which was a good sign.

"Little dizzy, little sore. Not so bad," Peng conceded. "You should go now, before police arrive. I no tell them who stabbed me, I say I not know."

"Good job this is before the days of security cameras, Sam," Al pointed out. It was of little comfort to the Leaper.

Peng reached up and put a hand on Sam's arm, "You good boy, you have good heart, not like other snake. Thank you."

Sam shook his head. "I wish I hadn't had to…to," he began to apologize again.

"No worry," Peng reassured him in his broken English. "Peng mean long life. Thanks to you, Peng live longer!" The old man smiled, though his eyes still reflected the pain of his injury.

Dr Beckett knew he should stay with the patient until help arrived. Two things prevented him from doing so. Firstly, the thought of having to explain to Emiko, and secondly the possibility that he would again be mistaken for the hero of the hour, and have to explain how he had saved the old man's life. He couldn't afford for word to get back to Tad that he had helped. Nevertheless, he waited until the sound of sirens reached his ears before he would leave Peng, so that the old man would not be alone for long. And still he hesitated.

"Go!" commanded the old man giving him a reassuring smile. "I be fine now."

Sam looked to Al for confirmation.

"He can't see  _me_ , Sam, which is a very good sign!" Al had been hanging back, trying to avoid that very scenario, which never failed to creep him out. Being seen by those near death was enough to faze the bravest hologram. He hit his hand-link, and relayed the good news.

"Ziggy says he's gonna be okay Sam. Not even a scar worth mentioning. Now beat it, will ya?"

Al made a shooing gesture, and Sam reluctantly obeyed.

Hurrying home, Sam sneaked in and headed straight to the bathroom, where he vigorously washed the blood from his hands, and then scrubbed his shirt to remove the tell tale red stains that marred it.

When he'd finished, he leant heavily on the sink and stared in the bathroom mirror at the reflection of the good-looking young man he was currently impersonating. The features looked as troubled as he felt.

"You did good, kid…" Al knew what was going through his friend's mind, and began offering his usual reassurances.

Sam rounded on him.

"I  _stabbed_  a man, Al! What's remotely good about that? Attacking a defenseless old man without provocation. It was awful, Al, really horrible. I don't think I'll  _ever_  forget the look in his eyes as he fell. Don't you  **ever**  make me do something like that again, you hear me?" He banged his fist on the sink for emphasis.

Al developed a sudden intense interest in the tip of his cigar.

'If only I could promise you that, you poor unsuspecting schmuck,' he thought to himself.

Aloud he said, sincerely, "I hope I never have to, Sam." He looked up at his friend, but still avoided making eye contact.

Trying to banish the morbid thoughts that had continually plagued him on this Leap, Al passed on what good news he could.

"Look on the bright side, Sam. Ziggy says if you keep a low profile, there should be no more problems till the weekend."

"You mean I actually get a bit of calm before the storm?" Sam's tone was bitter.

'More like the eye of a hurricane.' Al thought, sympathetically.

"Make the most of it, buddy," he advised. "Talk to Yasuo about tonight, and see if you can sow the seeds of doubt about Cobra membership. He looked like he might be a bit more receptive…"

"If he  _isn't_ having doubts after  _that_ episode, then I don't think I have  _any_  hope of getting through to him, Al. I just hope he hasn't lost so much respect for Kazuo that he won't listen to me anymore."

"Amen to that, pal," Al concurred, on which note he took his leave.


	8. Seven

**QLHQ**

"Zig-ggy, not again!" David complained. He tried to appease the uncooperative computer, "Give a guy a break, Ziggy, I'm only trying to help…" then suddenly, "Araahhh!" a sharp gasp, "That one  ** _really_** _hurt_!"

David slid out from beneath Ziggy's main console just as Al stepped out of the Imaging Chamber. At first neither the computer nor the technician registered his presence. David Beckett was too busy nursing a burnt hand; Ziggy was too busy gloating.

" _That_  will teach you to keep your filthy hacker hands  **out**  of my components."

"Ziggy!" Al's shock registered in his voice, "I don't believe what I'm hearing." He hurried over to where David still lay on the floor, and took a look at the new Chief Programmer's injury. "Wow! She really zapped you good, didn't she?" he commented.

"Uh-huh," David mumbled, cradling his cupped right hand in his left, holding it close to his body in an attempt to still the twitching spasms in his arm. He winced in pain. The palm and each of the digits bore a long broad line of deep red soreness. He had evidently been touching a cable conduit, which Ziggy had somehow made live, administering a low-voltage yet intense electric shock.

"Ziggy, is Sam likely to be in any danger in the next few hours?" Al interrogated sharply.

"Negative, Admiral. My data banks indicate a likelihood of 87 percent that the Leap will remain significantly uneventful until Saturday 28th February 1976, when…"

"Yes, yes, I  _know_  what's due to happen on  _Saturday_ , Zig," Al forestalled. "That's not the issue  _now_. I want you to perform a complete and thorough self-diagnostic. I'll send Tina in to help you. And before you make some smart-aleck comment, that's an order! And I'll be having words with you in due course, you sinister silicon diva," he muttered this last under his breath, but Ziggy registered the epithet nonetheless.

Al turned back to David, "Can you stand?"

David pressed his lips together, but nodded, "I think so."

Al eased him to his feet. "C'mon kid, let's get you to the infirmary. That looks really painful."

Although the young man was trying to put a brave face on it, Al noticed how shallow his breathing was, and how he looked like he was about to crumple at the knees. He didn't need his best friend's medical degree to know that electric shocks could cause nasty side effects in addition to serious burns. Without a word, Al hooked David's left arm over his own shoulder, and supported him out of the Control Room.

"I d-don't… ah don't feel so hot," David admitted once in the corridor, as his pulse pounded rapidly in his temples and made his heart thud against his ribcage.

"Don't you go passing out on me now," Admiral Calavicci ordered his new employee, though not unkindly.

"No, sir; I'm not planning on it." David gave him a weak smile.

"That's the spirit," Al encouraged. Under other circumstances, he would have had Ziggy call ahead to the medics and have help come to meet them, but right now he didn't trust her one jot where David Beckett was concerned. 'Sam, old pal, you have truly created a monster!' he thought to himself as he helped the shaky technician wend his way to the infirmary.

Since Ziggy controlled more or less every system in the complex, either directly or indirectly, Al didn't use the wrist communicator he wore to call for help either.

He was surprised, therefore, when the other newest recruit to the Project, Dr Cassandra Koulianos, soon met them in the corridor, pushing a wheelchair into which David sank gratefully.

The outrageous expenses involved in running the Project and the constant threats of funding cuts meant that the staff had been pared to the bare bones very soon after Sam first Leaped. Those left had to work longer shifts, and double up on various duties, even those that were not part of their original job description. Naturally, because Sam had provided a good deal of the medical expertise before his untimely departure, the medical crew was further depleted. Verbena Beeks, although primarily a psychiatrist, had some training in general medicine, and consequently found herself, with the aid of a small nursing staff, dealing with most of the day-to-day health worries of the personnel, referring any really serious cases to outside medical care. After the recent business with Rusty's affliction, however, she had insisted that the Project needed a full time dedicated physician on site to help her. She couldn't help feeling that if his condition had been correctly diagnosed more promptly, things may not have gotten so out of hand, and Gushie's life would not have been forfeit. It was an oversight she would not easily forgive herself for, and she had every intention of ensuring that such a situation should never arise again.

Al had sympathized with her point of view; in fact he whole-heartedly endorsed it, but he had maintained that the funding was not available to enable them to afford to appoint anyone, certainly nobody of the caliber they would need to cope with the special needs of their insular society.

Ironically, it had been David who had come to the financial rescue. His initial intensive examination of the system on taking up his duties had led to him spotting ways that power could be rerouted to make certain systems more efficient, and therefore more cost effective. The savings were just enough to offer a halfway decent wage to a live-in doctor.

Even stranger was the way that Dr Koulianos crossed their paths before they even got around to deciding how and where they would advertise the post, or indeed that they could actually afford to seek someone.

Once Rusty had been subdued after his mercury induced madness, the process of getting aid for his victims had begun in earnest. Miraculously, most of the nine security officers' injuries looked far worse than in fact they were, blood loss being the most significant problem in the majority of cases. Two, however were in a very bad way. They had been airlifted out by Al's old friend Harry, and rushed to Sandia hospital in Albuquerque, Corporal Matt Langley with two severed fingers from his left hand in a bag of ice. The cover story was that they'd had an accident with a chainsaw.

As Matt was being wheeled in to the ER, Dr Koulianos had been on her way out, having enquired about the possibility of a position but being told that there were at this time no vacancies even for a surgeon with her outstanding skills and references.

Just as they passed her by, Langley went into cardiac arrest, and without a moment's thought or hesitation, she had instantly performed CPR, undoubtedly saving the young Marine's life. In addition, she had accompanied him inside, and tended to him expertly in the interim until the resident doctors were able to rush over and take charge.

The hospital administration had at first been outraged that someone not covered by corporate insurance, and therefore liable to be sued had anything gone wrong, had dared to interfere with their procedures. On reflection, however, (having realized that in the absence of her actions the patient may indeed have expired before they had a chance to treat him) and in light of Beeks' gratitude to the stranger, they decided not to pursue the matter.

Once Langley had been declared out of immediate danger, Verbena had been sure to take contact details from the Greek Florence Nightingale who had hung around to see the outcome of the emergency she had stumbled upon. 'Bena was of the opinion that this simple act of kindness spoke volumes for the character of the woman, and she determined privately that a way would somehow be found to get her onto the team. As soon as David facilitated the funding, Bena had put her case to Al, and with his approval had called the remarkable Doctor she had met just days before.

And so here she was.

"What are you, a mind-reader or something, Doc?" Al interrogated jokingly, pleased beyond words to have her on hand to assist him with David.

Dr Koulianos looked at him sharply, and started to mutter something, nervously pushing her auburn hair behind her ear, then saw the look on his face and realized he was only teasing.

"Something like that," she countered dismissively, declining to explain how she just happened to be at the right place at the right time with the very thing David needed most at that precise moment.

Once in the examination room, Al and Cassandra helped David to sit up on the bed. Dr Koulianos took a look at his hand, which had begun to blister, and tutted.

"This is where the current went in, obviously," she thought aloud. She knew David was technically minded enough to understand what happens in cases of electric shock, so she got straight to the point.

"Do you know where it grounded itself? Is there somewhere else you hurt? Your foot perhaps?"

"I was uh lying down." David explained, "I was l-lucky, I think. It, ah, just traveled along my arm and, er, straight out my, gnah, my shoulder. It sure hurts like hell anyway, so, uh, I'm guessing that's the, uh, point of exit." For some reason, breathing was a bit of a strain.

"Let's take a look," suggested the physician. Without being asked, Al helped her to divest David of his short-sleeved shirt, being careful not to jar or rub his injured arm as they slipped it off him. As it became exposed, Al could not help but suck air in through his teeth in a sympathetic wince when he saw the large raw burn on the young man's shoulder. Exposure to the cool air intensified the agony for David, and a rapid panting followed his gasp of pain.

"Easy kid," Al reassured him, patting a comforting hand on his uninjured shoulder. "You're gonna be okay."

The doctor smiled at the Admiral, appreciative that his reassurance was helping to minimize after-shock in her patient. She hadn't been on staff long, but she already knew the Project Director was not comfortable with this sort of thing, so she was all the more grateful for his assistance.

oOo

Having left a nurse helping Cassie tend to David's burns, Al returned to the Control Room intent on making sure Tina was checking Ziggy over with a fine toothcomb. He'd stayed as long as he could, but when it got to the real nitty-gritty of David's treatment, Al had made his excuses and left. Besides, he had a bone to pick with the homicidal parallel hybrid computer.

"You've  **really**  gone too far this time, Zig!" Al exploded at the orb in the Control Room that most often formed the focal point when addressing the omnipresent intelligence known as Ziggy. "You could have  _killed_  Gush… uh, I mean David Beckett. It's a wonder you didn't!"

"That man is  **not**  Gushie. He will  _never_  be Gushie. I want Gushie back!" If the computer had a face, it would have been pouting.

Tina tried to placate her, "It's not  **David's**  fault Gushie's gone, Zig. We  _all_  miss him. But you gotta let David do his job."

"He  _cannot_  replace Gushie. I will not  _allow_  him to  _try_  to replace Gushie. Coming in here and immediately making 'improvements'. Things were fine the way Gushie had them! It is an  _insult_  to suggest otherwise."

The Admiral paced the floor of the Control Room, telling Ziggy exactly what he thought of her, and how it might have been better if Rusty _had_  taken  _her_ apart with his axe.

The computer pointedly ignored him.

Tina sent Al away after a few minutes, saying that nothing could be gained whilst feelings were still so heated, and the matter was better discussed once both sides had cooled down and the diagnostic routine had been completed.

"Leave her to me, Al," she whispered to her paramour, "I'll make sure she comes around."

"Thanks, hon." Al gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and went back to the infirmary to check on the injured party.

He found David propped upright on the bed by several pillows, his right arm bandaged and in a high sling. His bare chest had suction pads strategically placed upon it to feed data to a monitor by the bed.

"Thanks, doc," he was saying, as he sipped a drink she had given him to replace lost fluids, particularly electrolytes, "if you could just slip me a couple of painkillers with this, then I can get back to work." He looked up to see his boss walk back in and nodded in acknowledgement.

"You'll do no such thing!" Al informed him authoritatively. "I owe you an apology, kid. I'm sorry we didn't believe you about Ziggy. I mean I know she can be a royal pain in the butt, but I never dreamed she was capable of going to such lengths. You don't have anything to prove anymore David, and I'm not letting you near that psychopathic pile of printed circuits until I can be sure you'll be safe. You just rest up awhile."

"I think she must have been taking lessons from Edgar!" admitted David, referring to the computer in his favorite film.

"David's gonna be okay now, right doc?" Al asked, as she passed her patient a couple of Tylenol capsules.

"I'm not altogether happy about his heart-rate; it's still a little elevated. I'd like to keep Mr. Beckett here for observation tonight, just to make sure there are no complications. He was extremely lucky. He's sustained second-degree burns to his hand, and first-degree burns to his shoulder. There seems to be some minor tissue damage and weakness in the arm, a little swelling, but thankfully nothing too serious. The nerves and blood vessels seem to have escaped too much deep trauma. Every case of electric shock is different, and dependent on all sorts of factors. Had he been sweating a lot, he'd probably have sustained third degree burns down the entire length of his arm. As it is, if we can keep the injuries clear of infection, he should be completely healed in two to three weeks…"

"I can't stay off work that long!" protested David. "Sammi-Jo's still away. Tina can't cover  _all_  our shifts..."

"Calm down, young man," insisted the doctor, "or you're going to put your heart at risk." She took all but one of the pillows from behind his back, and helped him to lie down. "On your side, please, so we can keep the burns raised above the level of your heart." To assist him with this instruction she placed one of the firm, well stuffed pillows level with his chest, so that he could support his arm on it. David obediently rolled onto his left side and tried to get comfortable. His arm ached abysmally; the painkillers had not yet had a chance to kick in. The padding helped a little, easing the strain on the sling.

"I appreciate your dedication, David," Al told him, "but you aren't to return to work until the Doc says you're fit. Especially not until we get Ziggy straightened out. If you're up to some light duties in a day or two, fine. If not, we'll cope. I'll get Sammi-Jo recalled if I have to."

The Doctor was studying the monitor and frowning.

"I'm going to administer a mild sedative. You need to relax Mr. Beckett."

"Then, please, call me David," he instructed, submitting to the injection. Since he was not required to struggle back to his post, he'd take all the relief he could get.

He'd had a few minor jolts in his time - working with computers and cars it was inevitable that static shocks and mild electric shocks would be occupational hazards. The worst he'd had to date though had been a blistered finger and a prolonged tingling sensation. Never had he received a shock of the severity Ziggy had dealt him, and he never wanted one like it again. Damn, but it was painful! Not to mention how generally awful it was making him feel.

He hadn't just been trying to score points with the boss, he was genuinely anxious to get back to work, for despite the problems he loved his new job. Now having been virtually forbidden to do so, he couldn't say he was averse to taking it easy for a while. Surrendering to the meds, he soon found himself drifting off.

"Take good care of him, Doc," Al instructed Cassie. "Any change in his condition, keep me posted."

"Naturally," she responded, and then tilted her head to one side, giving Al a curious look. "Talking of keeping you posted, have you had a progress report on your wife recently? How's she doing, now she's back home?"

Al opened his mouth to reply, and then stopped - his jaw hanging. He snorted, disgruntled, "Is there  _anybody_  in this damned place that doesn't know every last personal detail of my private business?"

Cassie was about to quip, "One or two," but seeing the Admiral with a face like thunder made her think better of it. Instead, she merely shrugged as he stormed out, but allowed herself a small smile at the thought that he was on his way to call St Louis and ask after Ruthie.

**San Francisco.**

Sam hadn't exactly been avoiding Yas, though he was not looking forward to the inevitable conversation about the stabbing. He knew it had to be addressed, and that it  _could_  work in his favor. Yet personally, Sam couldn't help feeling the less said about the previous evenings activities the better, having spent the entire night in internal debate between emotional guilt and shame at having stabbed a defenseless old man and the intellectual knowledge that he had, in truth, saved Mr. Peng's life as much by striking the blow in Tad's stead as he had by tending to him afterward.

Consequently, Sam was further perturbed at having to pass a sizeable part of the morning in Kazuo's Literature lesson, where the book being studied was  _Crime and Punishment_.

By a cruel twist of fate, the teacher chose this particular morning to debate part five, chapter four. He began the lesson by having them read aloud the scene after Raskolnikov asks Sonia how she would determine who should die—Luzhin or Mrs. Marmeladov.

' **So in your opinion it is better that Luzhin should go on living and committing his abominations. You haven't the courage to decide even that?'**

' **But how am I to know what God's intentions may be? And why do you ask me something one should never ask? Why these silly questions? How could such a thing depend on my decision? Who made me a judge to decide who is to live and who is not to live?'**

' **Well, of course, if you drag in God's intentions, then there is nothing more to be said about it,' Raskolnikov muttered peevishly.**

At this point, Sam's attention strayed from the lesson. His mind played Dostoyevsky's lines over and over, and he remembered a recent leap when he'd made things worse and twice nearly cost a young girl her life. He recalled how he'd wondered then if he'd been arrogant to assume his leaping was the result of a Higher Power using him as a force for good.

In the light of last night's events, he was compelled to call his actions into question once more. What if he were wrong? What if he wasn't doing the Lord's work after all? Was he setting _himself_  up as judge and jury, deciding people's fates and imposing his own standards of what constituted a better life for one, a just punishment for another? How conceited of him!

Sam looked around for the reassuring presence of his holographic friend, but Al was nowhere to be seen. So Sam continued to wrestle with his conscience alone.

**QLHQ**

"I see," Al nodded, frowning. "Why didn't somebody call me?" he challenged. "Yes, I  _know_  what I said… yes it  _is_  virtually impossible for me to get away most of the time." Al was pacing the floor of his quarters, his standard four steps. "How serious is it?" He rubbed his temples as he listened. "No, no. Don't be ridiculous. Tell her I'm on my way."

"Ziggy?" Al queried automatically, and then wondered if he should leave her out of the equation.

"Yes, Admiral?" came the silky reply.

"Uh, is your diagnostic complete?"

"Yes, Admiral. And yes, you  _can_  trust me to carry out your requirements." Her tone was conciliatory. "I am contacting Harry as we speak to request an immediate flight to St Louis. I will contact you instantly if Dr Beckett should need your premature return. I will cooperate with Tina, and I will not harm  **Mr**. Beckett again. I will  _tolerate_  his presence. That does  _not_  mean I have to like him."

"Thank you, Ziggy." Al thought it best not to point out just how  _human_  Ziggy's behavior was. He'd take what he could get at the moment.

Throwing a few things into an overnight bag, Al headed out to take care of urgent business before he left. A quick call on Verbena let her know he would be off site for a while, and brought him up to speed on Rusty's therapy and the general state of the staff. A visit to Donna was next, to ask her to hold the fort for him while he was gone; since she was next in the chain of command.

He'd hoped to get out without an altercation with Tina, but she was waiting for him as he tried to enter the elevators that would take him to the surface.

"You  _told_  me you weren't going to see her again," she accused, blocking his path. "Yet your  _precious_  Ruthie only has to murmur your name and you go running to her side, like some well trained little lap dog!" She slapped him hard across the face.

"Your word means  _nothing_  Albert Calavicci." She stamped her foot, and only quick reactions kept him from having his own impaled by a stiletto heel. "Well, she can have you. I want  _nothing_  more to do with you!"

Without giving him a chance to offer any kind of a rejoinder, she turned on her spiked heels and stormed off.

"Here we go again!" Al sighed, as he rode the car to the surface, hefting his bag on his shoulder wearily. "Women!"

**New Mexico**

Harry had managed to file a flight plan and get permission to take off by the time Al reached his private landing strip. Hopping in to the Lear Jet, which Harry jokingly called Al's taxi, he sank into the luxury seat and sighed.

"Okay, Harry, lets get this show on the road."

"You going to visit that lovely lady you had me fly up from Dallas?"

"Yeah. And thanks again for that Harry. It meant a lot to me knowing you got Ruthie home safely."

"My pleasure, pal; she's a sweetie. Very brave. Kept telling me the doctor was a putz for saying she'd never walk again, and she didn't care how young he was, she'd prove him wrong by dancing on his grave! How's she doing?"

"Not so good. In fact she's taken a real turn for the worse. She's hospitalized again."

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Give her my best wishes, will you?"

"'Course."

By this time the engines were up to speed, and they were rolling down the runway, picking up momentum for the take off.

"You all belted up back there?" Harry enquired.

"Snug as a bug," Al replied with a smile, patting his seatbelt.

"Then we're off!" announced the pilot as he nosed the Jet into the air.

"Fresh cigars in the box," Harry winked at his favorite passenger once they were airborne.

"Thanks. You're a treasure," Al nodded, reaching forward and picking out a particularly fat Havana.

"Long as you don't try to bury me!" Harry laughed heartily. It was a frequent exchange between them, a standing joke.

"Hmmm, the only way to travel," Al muttered, contentedly puffing on his cigar, as Harry whisked him off to St Louis.

"How long you planning to be away?" Harry asked.

"Just a flying visit, if you'll pardon the pun."

"In that case you may have to go commercial on the return journey. Sorry, Al, you know I'd drop just about anything for ya, but I've an appointment I really can't miss in Fiji tomorrow. My nephew's getting married!"

Though naturally disappointed not to have his 'taxi' available Al knew that Harry had other commitments, and was just grateful that he was on hand as often as he was. He rarely failed to come to their aid at the shortest notice, and barely charged enough to cover the cost of his fuel, despite the fact he had a living to make, and their charters often meant him turning down more lucrative bookings. Their friendship went way back, and Harry had some odd notion that he owed Al for his part in events never talked about. Al felt they were long since more than even, but knew that Harry would be most offended if his generosity were ever rejected.

"No worries," he told Harry. "Say hi to the family for me."

"Sure thing."

They exchanged news and pleasant banter for a little while longer, but soon after Al finished his cigar, he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Harry noticed the lull in the conversation and glanced back.

It was not uncommon for Al to sleep through most of a flight. It seemed to be the best opportunity he got for a bit of uninterrupted shuteye. Knowing that the retired Admiral's current occupation was extremely stressful, even without knowing  _all_  the classified details of it, Harry was content to let Al sleep. Giving Al some quality downtime was just one more way he could help his buddy, and he was glad to do it.

Something about the motion of the plane must have lulled Al into a feeling of security, for he drifted into the most restful sleep he'd had in a long while. The nightmares of the last couple of nights didn't plague him here. Even his very real concern for his ex-wife didn't trouble his slumbers. Instead, he dreamed of their honeymoon on the Niagara express, blissful days and nights before the issue that had split them reared its ugly head. He dreamed of romantic encounters, and the way her hair smelt when she'd just washed it to remove the stink of formaldehyde from her father's funeral parlor. He used to tease her about it, and she used to say that at least she'd have a chance of preserving her good looks.

Al smiled in his sleep.

He dreamed of candlelit dinners of gefilte fish and Matzah ball soup. Ruthie really was the most amazing cook, even if she did drive him mad by insisting on cutting his food up for him. Even that had seemed endearing at first, taking food from the fork she proffered, having her pop strawberries into his mouth. She knew how to make every morsel sensual.

Al's sleep smile grew broader as his dreams  _really_  took off…

**San Francisco**

When Yasuo finally tracked him down at lunch break, Sam made sure they found somewhere well away from the others to open up their lunch boxes and the can of worms that the conversation was bound to open.

They sat and ate in silence for a minute or two, while Yas kept giving him uncertain looks. The lad obviously wanted answers, but was afraid to broach the subject. He looked a little afraid of Sam, who was in no hurry to start the conversation himself. He'd been hoping Al would turn up for moral support, and perhaps a few helpful suggestions as to what he should say, but the hologram hadn't put in an appearance all day.

Finally deciding he was on his own with this one, Sam swallowed a mouthful of his sandwich, for which he had no appetite, and then purposefully put it down, looking at Yas with a challenge in his eyes.

"Well, let's have it, then, Yas."

"Sorry?" The boy put down his own food and shifted uncomfortably as if deciding whether or not to bolt to safety.

Something made Sam take a harsh approach. Maybe it was his own confused feelings warring within him still; maybe it was a desire to shock some sense into the lad. Whatever it was, Sam's tone was accusatory.

"You've been telling me all this time how great gang membership is, and how you  _love_  to hang out with them, and what a wonderful  _family_ the Cobras are. So tell me, how did you enjoy your night out with them last night, eh? Did you have a good time, a laugh?  _Did_  you?"

"Kaz!" Yasuo was taken aback, both by his friend's tone, and by what he was saying. "How can you say that? It wasn't  _funny_! It was  **awful.** " He shuffled uncomfortably, putting just a little more distance between him and the friend he no longer knew as well as he thought he did.

"Tad said he was upholding the honor of the Cobras. Surely you agree with that?" Sam pushed him still further.

"Well, yeah, of course we have to uphold our honor. Like Bushido to a Samurai, honor is very important, Kaz, you know that. But…" He chewed his lip, and his eyes looked everywhere but at Sam.

"But what, Yasuo?" Sam pressed, moving just a little so that Yas was forced to make eye contact. He didn't hold it though; he looked down into his lap.

"W-what you did…" he paused, 'uh, it doesn't seem very honorable to me, Kaz." He cringed, almost ducking as he said it, as if he feared Kazuo would strike him too.

"Thank you!" Sam sighed with relief, looking from Yasuo to the heavens. The kid wasn't beyond redemption; he still had a sense of decency.

"Excuse me?" Yasuo was confused; he didn't know for sure whether Kazuo had gotten a buzz out of what he'd done, or if he was truly as horrified as he'd looked last night when he'd walked out of the store and dismissed Yas.

Sam's tone softened as he asked, "Why do you think I did it, Yas?"

"I've been asking myself that since it happened, Kaz. I'd never have believed it of you. That poor old man! Do you think you killed him?" Yas was now wide-eyed and terrified at the mere idea that his best friend could be a murderer.

"I didn't kill him, Yas. I promise you I didn't kill him," Sam reassured him quietly.

"How can you be sure?" Yasuo accused, leaning in to keep his voice low as a couple of younger students wandered close to them.

"Can I trust you to keep a secret, even from – no,  _especially_ from the rest of the gang? Who has your greatest loyalty, Yas, the Cobras or me?"

"That's a tough one, Kaz," Yasuo replied candidly after a moment's contemplation. "It depends, I suppose."

Sam hadn't really expected Yas to come down firmly on his friend's side, and though it would have made his job easier if the kid had done so, he had to admire the boy for his honesty.

"Let me put it another way, Yas." Sam really wished he had Al there to help him with this. So much depended on not scaring the kid off, or sending him running to Tad telling tales. He swallowed hard. "What do you think Tad would have done if I hadn't stopped him?"

"Well…" Yas glanced up at Sam, and then studied his lap again, squirming uncomfortably as he debated whether he dared voice his thoughts.

"Just between you and me," Sam encouraged, hoping that they could keep all of this that way.

"Erm, from where I was standing…" The boy paused again. Sam dipped his head to one side, inviting Yas to continue. "Well, it looked like he was about to stab the old man right through the heart." Yas shuddered, horrified at the mere thought, and scared that simply saying it aloud would be enough to incur the wrath of the Crown Prince.

"He would have, Yas. No question," Sam confirmed. "Now, what do you think he'd have done  _after_  I intervened - if I hadn't stabbed Mr. Peng myself?"

Again Yasuo paused while he deliberated the question. After some time, during which the boy went pale as he obviously contemplated the alternatives, he looked at Sam, and this time didn't look away.

"I guess, erm, I mean, that is - I reckon he'd, uh, he'd have killed the old man anyway. He was pretty steamed. He probably woulda killed you too," Yasuo admitted.

"Without a doubt." Sam pressed home his point, "What would  **you**  have done in my place, Yas?"

Another pause.

"I uh, I dunno, Kaz, honestly. Last night I thought you were a total coward for attacking that old man. But now, well, now it seems like it was actually a pretty brave thing to do. I'm not sure I'm that brave. Not sure I could've stood up to Tad and  _not_  done it either, y'know? You're certain you  _didn't_  kill him?" Yas asked again.

Sam still wasn't sure it was safe to confess to Yas what he had done. If there were the slightest chance that the boy would betray him…

While he hesitated, Yasuo made a confession of his own.

"I wanted to go back, to see if he was okay, to try to help. I was too scared though. Scared of Tad catching me, and scared I'd find him, uh, you know, find him d-dead." He was talking fast, as if trying to make sure that he got the words out before he changed his mind about saying them. He was looking around nervously too, afraid that he might be overheard. Tad may not attend their school, but other Cobras did - Cobras who could and would report back to the Crown Prince. Yasuo looked down again, as if ashamed of himself for not having done the right thing. He colored a little.

" _Wakari masu_ ," Sam assured him that he understood the boy's dilemma.

"I  _did_  try phoning for an ambulance. They said someone had already reported it." Yasuo looked relieved as he said this.

Sam decided to follow his gut and open up to the boy.

"That would've been me," he said softly.

Yasuo made eye contact at last, a hopeful expression in his fearful eyes. " _Nani_? Y-you?"

Sam nodded.

"Promise you won't tell anyone?" Sam held him with an earnest gaze.

" _Hai_ ," Yasuo nodded in his turn. "I'm glad, Kaz. I didn't like that old man getting hurt."

"Nor did I, Yas," Sam assured him, "that's why I went back and gave him first aid." There, he'd said it. He just hoped the confession wouldn't come back to bite him in the butt later.

"You did? Aren't you scared Tad will find out?" Yasuo queried, awe in his voice.

"A bit," Sam admitted, though not for the reasons Yasuo would have assumed, "that's why I asked you if I could trust you with a secret."

"I won't tell him, Kaz," promised his friend. "He was way out of line."

Relief wrapped itself around Sam's shoulders like a comfortable quilt.

Sam resisted a very strong urge to say 'I told you so' regarding Tad and the activities of the Cobras. He had to be subtler than that. It was enough that he could see the doubt in the young boy's demeanor. Sam dared to hope that they were a couple of steps closer to Yas being receptive to the idea of quitting the gang, and decided not to push it any further just yet.

Regrettably, with his next words, Yasuo let it be known it was a case of two steps forward, one step back, "Things'll be better when the King's back in control, you'll see, Kaz. Tad's always been a bit of a loose cannon. He's just a bit power-crazy. It's gone to his head being left in charge. Fujiyama will take him back down a peg."

Sam gave him a thin smile, as if he were buying the reassurance. Sadly, he knew better. He could only hope that in the next few days he would be able to chip away at Yasuo's admiration for the gang enough to get him away from the fatal encounter on Leap Day. In the meantime, he would try to wean the boy off contact from the group in any way he could.

**St Louis**

As he said his farewells to Harry in St Louis, Al looked a good ten years younger than when he'd boarded. Harry shook him heartily by the hand and told him to take care of himself.

"You, too, Harry! Enjoy the wedding." Al sauntered off with a jaunt in his step.

It evaporated once he reached the hospital.

"Ah, Admiral Calavicci, good, I'm glad you're here. She's been asking for you again." The Doctor met him while he was still checking in at the nurse's station.

"How's she doing, Doc? Any improvement?" Al allowed himself to be steered to one side. "What happened exactly? She was doing so well."

"It is unfortunately quite a common complication of paralysis that patients' immune systems are severely impaired. All it takes is for one visitor to be incubating a cold they don't even know they have… In this case however it was even simpler. She's highly susceptible to infection, and unfortunately the lack of feeling below her umbilicus meant she wasn't immediately alerted to a problem with her catheter. Bottom line," the Doctor saw Al's face as he'd started to explain, and realized that details were neither necessary nor desirable, "she's developed a severe case of pyelonephritis, that is" he corrected himself, "a kidney infection. Her fever is running dangerously high at 104 degrees at the moment. She's oscillating between full lucidity and extreme delirium. I must warn you, though she has been calling for you, it's quite possible she won't recognize you."

Al nodded his acknowledgement of the warning, suddenly questioning the wisdom of this white knight dash to the lady's bedside. Not only had he deserted Sam mid-leap, it had also already seriously jeopardized his relationship with Tina, and was likely to do nothing but complicate his tenuous relationship with Ruthie. Nevertheless, he was here now, so it would be foolish  _not_  to see her.

"Ruthie?" he whispered as he went into her room and approached the bed. She looked to be asleep, though she was restless, her upper body twitching, her mouth mumbling incoherently. She was flushed with fever, perspiring freely. A nurse was gently sponging her down with a cool damp cloth.

"Her temperature has dropped a little," the nurse told him in a whisper, "but it's still 103.2 degrees."

Al slipped over and sat on the other side of the bed, looking on helplessly, and awkwardly clutching the huge bunch of flowers he had brought her.

"Would you like to take over here for a while, sir?" The nurse held out the cloth and bowl to him, "That way you can get a little privacy. I'll put those in some water for you. ' _Iris ruthenica'_ – glorious! Just buzz if either of you need anything."

Al took the cloth and began tenderly dabbing it on Ruthie's forehead to mop up the perspiration. He smiled his thanks to the nurse for her sensitivity as she left with the bouquet.

"Oh, Ruthie." He shook his head. "You went home too soon, didn't you? You're so independent; so determined. You must've hated having to rely on your B'nai B'rith friends. You've never found it easy to admit you can't cope alone, have you, you silly woman?" Al lifted her hand gently with his own and kissed the knuckles tenderly.

"Al?" she whispered hoarsely, and her head moved as if she sought him out, though her eyes remained closed.

"I'm here, Ruthie," he reassured her, his own voice cracking with repressed emotion. "I'm right here."

"Al? Where's Al? I want my Al!" She began tossing more vigorously, Al moving to restrain her lest she hurt herself.

"It's me, Ruthie, I'm here. It's Al. It's me." She'd jerked her hand free of his in her agitation. He took hold of it again, stroking it soothingly.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, and she became calmer.

"That's it, that's right. It's okay now, Ruthie, everything's gonna be okay, I'm here."

"Al?"

"I'm right here." Al swallowed down the lump that threatened to choke him. "Hey, Ruthie," he looked around, trying to lighten the mood, "what happened to your blue ribbon?"

He didn't see it. Not pinned on her, not in her thinning grey hair nor round her wrist or round her neck, but that could have been a result of hospital regulations. He couldn't see it on her bed-frame, or on the bedside cabinet. It could be securely hidden away inside, he supposed. Yet given her ecstatic reaction when he'd presented her with it, he'd have thought it would have been more prominently displayed.

"What's the matter, did you lose it, or did it just stop working?" There was a profound sadness in his voice, though he tried to act as if he were just teasing. She'd told him before he left last time that the ribbon was, if not exactly a miracle cure, then at least a tonic that made her feel stronger and fitter than she'd imagined possible. She set as much store by it as the people in Sam's story, and it had done his heart good to see her spirits lift.

"My ribbon!" Ruthie became agitated again. "Yes, my ribbon, I need my ribbon!"

She lifted her head and shoulders, as if trying to sit up and get it, but she had neither the strength nor the mobility. "My ribbon!  **I… want… my… ribbon**!" Ruthie cried shrilly, with all the petulance of a child demanding ice cream, bringing the nurse scurrying back into the room and hastily putting down the vase she carried to help Al get her lying down again.

"Where is it, honey?"

"At home." She sounded sad and distant, "In my Torah."

She was using it as a bookmark in her family's religious tome. Somehow he wasn't surprised.

"Would you fetch it for me?" Her hand tried to grasp his, but there was no strength in it. "Please. I want to have it when Al gets here."

The nurse looked at him sympathetically, as if to say, 'Don't be offended with her, she can't help it.'

"My Al went all the way to Jerusalem to get it for me, did you know that?" she asked them both. Her eyes sparkled for a moment, and she leant toward him conspiratorially, and laid a hand on his arm. "Don't tell him I said so, but now he's matured, I think he may be a mensch after all!" She winked, while Al's eyes misted with moisture, even as he stifled a huff at the backhanded compliment.

The nurse looked at him quizzically, "Mensch?" she whispered, unfamiliar with the Yiddish expression.

"I guess 'good guy' is about the closest translation," he whispered back.

"What are you saying?" Ruthie interjected. "Is Al coming? Is he here? He can't come in till I have my ribbon! Tell him he can't come in!" She became very agitated again.

"Calm down, Mrs. Calavicci, you'll make yourself sick," warned the nurse.

Al didn't correct her on Ruthie's marital status; he merely bent over and kissed Ruthie on her hand. "Don't fret, hon, I'll fetch your ribbon for you," he told her.

"Oh thank you!" she enthused. "Please, hurry!"

Before the nervous edge could escalate to a full-scale panic, Al assured her, "I'll be back in no time, you'll see. I'll be right back."

As he was leaving, he was astounded to hear her say softly, whether actually  **to** him or not he couldn't be sure, "I love you, Al. I never stopped loving you."


	9. Eight

 

**St Louis**

In fact it took Al a little over two hours door to door. Stepping out of the taxi cab, he was met at Ruthie's front door by Esther Solomon. The peroxide-blonde was one of the close friends who had been looking in on Ruthie since her return - and the one who had answered the phone when he'd called from New Mexico. Whilst Ruthie was in the hospital, she had taken it upon herself to pop around and feed her cats.

She soon helped him locate the item he sought, and also handed him a small bag of other essentials she'd been planning on taking in when she visited the next morning.

"She may as well have them, now, though, since you're going back," Esther told him.

"She's been asking for this too," she commented as she padded a photo frame with a flannel to protect the glass putting this last item in the top of the small overnight bag. Al couldn't help but notice it was one of their wedding photos. How much younger and more carefree they both looked then. No, not just carefree – the word was happy. They looked blissfully happy.

Ruthie was once more half asleep when he returned. This time, rather than babbling, she was humming. It took Al a few moments to recognize the tune, but when he realized it was 'Volare', he almost burst out laughing. Instead, he settled for a broad grin, and then leaned forward, brushing back a wisp of stray hair from her forehead and planting a gentle kiss in its place.

"Here's your ribbon, hon," Al told her, as he placed it on the locker by her bed, looping it across the corner of the photo frame, which he angled so that she could see it from where she lay, smiling now in her slumbers.

Looking at their smiling faces in the picture, so full of hope and expectation, Al couldn't help but think about what Ruthie had said earlier. She'd never stopped loving him. How could that be true? It had to be just the fever talking, didn't it? Or was it a case of 'In Febris veritas'?

At the time of their split, she had told him she hated his guts, and despised everything about him, that she loathed and detested him with all her being. She had heaped insult upon insult, telling him in no uncertain terms what she considered to be his faults, which in her opinion were legion. Acrimonious was an understatement in describing their divorce.

Sam had tried to reassure him, but what if it  _had_  been just his selfishness, 'immaturity,' and lack of sensitivity that had kept him from seeing Ruthie's point of view? Where would they both be now if he had relented and allowed himself to be convinced to adopt?

At one time he would have said that such 'what ifs' were just pointless ways to torture oneself. Yet Sam's Leaps had taught him that sometimes the road not taken could be explored after all. Would a family have kept them together? Or just been a different way of driving them apart? Would they have been happier? Together or apart, would their lives have taken a 'better' course?

Yet though there was much later heartache he'd have been glad to be spared, Al couldn't help the feeling that he wouldn't want to risk trading a dose of marital bliss with Ruthie against his adventures with Sam. Would Sam have still built the Project without him? Would he have Leaped without Al as his holographic observer? Al had meant what he said back in that snow cave. Sam meant more to him right now than he could have dreamed he could feel for another man. That he could put a friend before a lover, past or present, would once have been unimaginable to him. Yet now it was the most natural thing in the world. Sam was more than a friend, he was like a brother, or the son he never had.

These thoughts led him to wonder what Sam was doing at that moment – or rather back in 1976. He stole a glance at his wrist communicator, as if to reassure himself that Ziggy was not about to recall him for some dire emergency.

A pang of guilt crept in to knot his stomach, thinking how far away he was if Sam should need him.

"Al? Where are you, Al? I need you!"

For a second, Al imagined it was Sam calling to him across the years, and he all but got up and rushed out. Then he realized it was Ruthie's voice he'd heard, and he leaned forward in the chair he couldn't remember having sat down in, and took her hand tenderly once more.

"I'm here, babe. Al's right here."

He sat with Ruthie for half an hour or more, over which time her ramblings subsided gradually, though she was still not showing any signs of recognizing him, despite his frequent reassurances.

When the nurse next came in and took her temperature, she reported it to have dropped to 100.9 degrees, a significant reduction from the high fever she'd been suffering on his arrival.

"Does that mean she's out of the woods?" Al asked hopefully.

"Well, sir, she's still very poorly, but it's certainly a good sign." The nurse smiled encouragingly at him.

Al fidgeted.

"I'm going to have to make tracks soon, I'm afraid. I have commitments elsewhere, and I'm not sure I'm doing any good here. She doesn't seem to know me at all. Tell her I came, will you? Give her my best wishes." He stood up to leave.

"Al! What a lovely surprise! How kind of you to come visit me out of the blue." Ruthie chose that moment to come to full wakefulness and acknowledge him at last. She smiled at him broadly when she saw the photo and ribbon on the stand next to him. She seemed to have forgotten all about having called for him, and was totally unaware of having sent him to fetch her ribbon. Whether or not she remembered her unexpected declaration he didn't imagine he'd ever know for sure. He certainly had no intention of asking her about it.

"Well, sit, take the weight off," she instructed him, patting the edge of her bed to underline her command.

"Actually, hon, I can't stay," Al apologized. "I have to catch a flight, I'm needed back at work."

Her face fell.

"But you only just got here!" Ruthie complained petulantly.

Al opened his mouth to contradict her, but thought better of it. The nurse did the same, but he forestalled her with a shake of his head.

"I just wanted to look in on you and see for myself that you're on the mend."

"Well thank you very much for sparing me so much of your  _valuable_  time!" The sarcasm in her tone was unmistakable. She gave an irritated huff of her shoulders.

Al knew she was crabby because she was still fighting the infection, and he could appreciate that from her fuzzyheaded perspective he was no sooner there than he was going. Nevertheless, he was anxious to check back in with Sam. Ziggy's dire predictions for Sam's weekend hung heavy on his mind, and he wanted to be sure Sam could change history sufficiently in the meantime to avoid the detestable dilemma he'd otherwise have to face.

"I brought you flowers," Al offered, by way of conciliation.

"They're half dead, too," she sulked under her breath.

"If there's anything else you need, anything at all, get someone to call me, babe," Al told her.

She replied bitterly, "That's the trouble Albert; the story of our lives – what I need is the very thing you can't or won't give me."

That stung, but he tried to keep the hurt from his face and his voice, as he reiterated, "I'm sorry, hon, but I really need to get back."

Time was, this exchange would have been the trigger for a full-scale slanging match between them, but he had no interest in going down that road again. There was nothing to be served by reopening old wounds. Instead, he merely promised to call frequently to check on her progress.

"Don't trouble yourself, I'd hate to think I'd burdened you with one more bothersome  _duty_." She emphasized the last word harshly.

Al felt himself bristling under her onslaught. Yet still, he refused to rise to her bait.

He gave her a lopsided grin, "Ruthie, honey, if you expend half as much energy fighting that infection as you do in fighting me, then those pesky germs won't stand a chance!"

She opened her mouth to give him some sharp response, but said nothing - finding herself strangely lost for words. So instead she turned her head away from him indignantly. Nevertheless, she did not pull away when Al leaned over and placed a tender kiss of farewell on her cheek, but merely blinked back an unbidden tear.

 

**San Francisco**

Unfortunately, over the next couple of days, the more Sam tried to avoid the gang in general, and Tad in particular, the more their paths seemed to cross.

From Wednesday to Saturday, Al had not put in a single appearance to warn him where the gang would be or what they were doing. Sam wondered at his absence, and worried over it, and finally got angry over it. Had Al been there to caution them, he and Yasuo could have avoided some unpleasant encounters.

Sam felt increasingly neglected and betrayed.

Even as he worried that ill health or a crisis back at the Project may be responsible for Al's non-appearance, he still rehearsed several harsh words for when the hologram finally deigned to arrive. It was not fair that he was left to struggle through in the dark like this. Too much was at stake for him to be muddling along and seemingly making little progress in getting through to Yasuo, who always had an upbeat answer to every unfortunate event.

Sam and Yas ended up joining the rest of the Cobras in a number of minor tussles with the Scorpions, which Sam thankfully always managed to bring to an abrupt end with a few well-placed martial arts moves. Whilst this kept them and their 'brothers' from serious harm, it did nothing to improve either Tad's temper or his opinion of the 'upstart Kazuo'.

Several times, they found themselves in meetings at Cobra HQ – the abandoned warehouse nearest to where Sam had Leaped in. The huge storage area downstairs was perfect for all sorts of hi-jinks, sparring matches and trick roller-skating. Matanaru's office, where Cobra business was conducted in all seriousness, was up a set of clanking, wobbly metal stairs. Once it had dealt with orders and invoices and shipping dockets, but now it was used for planning ways to take territory from the Scorpions, and ensure that the Cobras ruled the streets. There was still a huge desk in the corner, and a chair that had once been well padded, but now spewed its foam from several splits. The filing cabinets had all gone, but a large board on the wall that previously showed profit and loss charts now boasted a map of the district, with dozens of purple pins to show Cobra territory, and fewer red ones showing pockets of Scorpion owned terrain. Two boxes on the pen shelf below held more pins to commemorate when a piece of turf was taken or lost.

The Cobras seldom lost.

The gang made themselves comfortable at these meetings on a series of tatty cushions and pillows scrounged from their various homes, and a filthy smelly old king sized mattress rescued from a garbage dump. When he couldn't avoid attending, Sam preferred to stand. He also preferred not to contribute to the battle plans, unless it was to subtly engineer a reduction in the risk of casualties on either side.

It was on arrival at one of these strategy meetings late on Saturday afternoon that things escalated between the two gangs to a hitherto unimagined level of conflict.

 

**Lambert - St Louis International Airport**

Sammi-Jo was drained both physically and emotionally by her trip to Chicago, and the last thing she needed was an unscheduled lay-over in St. Louis on her way back to New Mexico. Yet quite rightly, the pilot could not ignore the warning signs suggesting a fuel leak in one of the engines, so she'd just have to grin, or rather grit her teeth, and bear it.

Fortunately, Captain Wren was an excellent pilot and had landed them without incident, but the aircraft had then been towed away for thorough safety testing. They had been told that it could be some time before another plane could be allocated to the flight as a whole, and they were at liberty to seek passage with alternate airlines at their discretion. The question of compensation would be dealt with in due course.

While she waited for a seat to become available on a connecting flight, Sammi-Jo tried to find a quiet spot to sit and gather her thoughts, but the plane-load of her fellow stranded passengers milling around with all the regular travelers made it an unlikely goal. She did not feel like engaging in idle conversation with other marooned commuters, so she kept her head down as she weaved in and out of the crowds trying to find a corner to perch on.

It just so happened, another traveler with a lot on his mind was wending his way to the check-in desk, his dispirited air keeping his eyes downcast as he shuffled through the throng. Inevitably they collided, his wallet being knocked from his hand to the floor.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Sammi-Jo offered as she bent to retrieve it.

"My fault entirely," he replied, bending likewise.

Their heads connected with a sharp cracking sound.

"Owww," came the cry in unison, followed by an equally coordinated, "Sorry!' and a self conscious snigger from both.

Sammi-Jo's fingers clasped the black leather wallet and a hand closed over hers. It was slightly liver-spotted, but not drastically wrinkled.

They rose, holding the item between them, and once upright and face-to-face Sammi-Jo handed it back with a gracious smile.

"I do beg your pardon," she reiterated, "my mind was miles away."

"Think nothing of it, my dear." His accent was classic British.

He was tall and distinguished in appearance, immaculately dressed in an expensive looking suit of dark grey, several shades deeper than his hair. He looked to be around mid-sixties in age, but it was hard to tell, for his fine features bore the years well.

"I wasn't looking where I was going," he apologized, "I hope I didn't hurt you too much."

Subconsciously, Sammi-Jo had lifted a hand and rubbed at the point of contact, where a tiny bump was starting to appear on her forehead.

"It's nothing, really. Are  _you_  alright?" Sammi-Jo countered, a look of genuine concern in her eyes.

"I'm perfectly fine, don't concern yourself," he assured her. "William Henderson, at your service," he introduced himself, extending his hand. "Thank you for retrieving my wallet. I wouldn't get far without it, and as you may be able to tell, I'm a long way from home." The hand he'd been shaking he now lifted to his lips in a gesture of pure gallantry.

Sammi-Jo smiled, introduced herself in turn and asked politely, "Are you here on vacation?"

"Unfortunately  _not_  a jolly holiday." He looked suddenly melancholy. "I've just come over to bury my brother."

"Oh, I am sorry," Sammi-Jo apologized once more. "How tactless of me."

Looking closer, she could see the dark grey suit bore a black armband on the left sleeve. She cast her eyes downward again, embarrassed, and blinked back a tingle of tearfulness.

"Please, don't distress yourself, Miss Fuller." He still had hold of her hand, and now led her gently to a nearby seat that had been vacated. "You weren't to know."

Sammi-Jo reached into her purse for a handkerchief, rummaging to find one she was sure should be there.

"I – I just lost my parents," she confessed, and the tears glistened brighter in her eyes.

"Oh my dear, how awful!" He reached into his breast pocket and presented her with a crisp white handkerchief, then placed a comforting hand on her arm.

Though he was a stranger, and of a nationality known for its reserve, their shared bond of grief was enough to draw them together, and in another moment they were consoling one another in a hug.

"Sammi-Jo!" came a surprised and shocked voice from very close. "If you're gonna pick up strange men at airports, you should at least make sure they aren't old enough to be your father!" Al laughed jovially.

"I say, old chap," Henderson stood up indignantly, "is that any way to address a young lady who has recently been orphaned?"

He squared up to Al as if prepared to fight to defend the lady's honor.

"Al?" Sammi-Jo looked up through tear-stained eyes as if only just registering his identity.

" _Orphaned_?" Al repeated incredulously. "Oh Sammi-Jo, no! Really?"

She could do no more than nod, not trusting herself to speak.

Al was still trying to process the information; "Phil  **and** Abigail?" he sought further confirmation.

Again, Sammi-Jo merely nodded. Then, "Oh, Al!" she sighed, exactly as she had in his quarters such a short lifetime ago. He swept her to her feet and into a tight embrace and just held her as the tears flowed once more.

"I'm so sorry, hon," he offered after a while.

During this exchange, Henderson had hovered on the sidelines, not wishing to intrude, but feeling protective of his new-found friend. Hearing his flight called, he cleared his throat.

"That's me, I'm afraid," William said softly.

Sammi-Jo broke free of Al's embrace and turned toward Henderson.

He reached into his wallet and took out a calling card, which he gently pressed into her hand. "I'm glad I don't have to leave you alone, and that you have someone you seem to know well to help you through this, but if you feel the need of a 'kindred soul' to unburden yourself to, please feel free to get in touch."

Extending her hand as she thanked him, she suddenly changed her mind, and turned the formal gesture into another hug, bobbing up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. "You're a sweetie," she told him, at which he blushed. Unable to give her own - classified - number, she promised she would call, and wished him well.

"Take  _good_  care of her, sir," Henderson commanded Al authoritatively, looking him in the eye with a penetrating gaze, "or you shall have me to answer to." He did not relinquish his stare until he had elicited from Al the promise, "I'll look after her, never fear, Sammi-Jo's like family to me." Al extended his own hand to the stranger, "Thank you for looking out for her 'til I got here, and please accept my apologies for my initial comment. I meant no harm by it, it's just my way."

Henderson accepted the proffered hand, and the apology, graciously, "No harm, no foul, as you people say." His grip was firm.

Before departing for his flight, Henderson turned to Sammi-Jo one last time. "May God bless you, and comfort you, young lady." Again, he gallantly kissed the back of her hand.

"You too." She sniffed, holding up the handkerchief he had so kindly lent her, now soaked with her tears, and managed a small smile, "I'll wash this and mail it back to you. Safe journey."

"Oh, please, my dear, keep it to remind you that someone is thinking of you in your sorrow." He gave a respectful inclination of his head, as if he were a knight of old, conferring a gift upon his lady.

All three exchanged waves as he left.

Once alone, Al drew Sammi-Jo once more to the bench, and sank down wearily next to her, letting her rest her head on his shoulder. He well remembered Abigail from the various Leaps Sam had made into her life. He recalled how out-of-control in love with her Sam had been, and how Sammi-Jo had been the result of that infatuation. He had met Abi and her husband Phil a few times in the intervening years too, at family celebrations to which Sammi-Jo had kindly invited her "Uncle Al". It seemed inconceivable that they could both be gone.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" he asked her gently.

She did. Haltingly, tearfully, Sammi-Jo told him everything, including how her mother had finally summoned her back into the hospital room along with her brothers and bid them all a fond farewell before slipping away. All she left out, for the moment, was the conversation that had led to her realization that Sam must be her biological father. She wasn't sure yet how to broach the subject, nor even if she was ready to bring her epiphany into the open. So much had happened in so short a time, and she was having trouble grasping the reality of any of it, let alone the really way out stuff!

"At least I got to say goodbye to her, Al." Sammi-Jo looked at him with gratitude, "Thank you for allowing me to do that."

"Hey, you're welcome, kid, if I'd have known what the problem was, I'd probably have come with you. You should have told me, you know."

"Maybe so," she conceded, and then couldn't help adding caustically, "but then, we don't  _always_  tell people what we should, do we,  _Uncle_ Al?" She had given him that nickname when he first recruited her. He'd always taken a special interest in her, more so than in most employees at the Project, and once she'd realized it was not the sort of lecherous interest he had in most female staff, she had dubbed him 'Uncle' for the protective role he played in ensuring her welfare. He'd been pleased to allow it. Now she couldn't help feeling that as Sam's best friend, and with them being as close as brothers, he'd adopted the avuncular role before she even thought of using the epithet. He'd looked out for her, not just as a poor innocent girl a long way from home, but as the daughter of the man who was the closest thing he had to family. Lots of little things made sense to her now. It was just one more revelation that made her even more convinced of her theory, as was his badly disguised reaction to her comment, and the rapid change of subject.

Al gave Sammi-Jo a startled look, wondering what her odd comment and the emphasis of his Uncle nickname could mean. To cover his confusion, he asked about her travel arrangements, and how she came to be in St Louis. It was soon decided that he would pull a few strings, and make sure they were traveling back to Albuquerque on the same flight.

She let him bustle about making his arrangements, glad to obey his instruction to sit tight. Sammi-Jo felt suddenly numb, and let the world hurry by unnoticed, unaware of how much time passed, or much of anything else.

 

**In flight to New Mexico**

During the first half of their flight very little conversation passed between them, both being lost in their own thoughts and recollections of startling things said from hospital beds.

Strangely enough, what finally brought things to a head was Al drifting off sleep.

Sammi-Jo didn't notice at first, she was too wrapped up in her misery. Then Al began dreaming and shuffling in his seat. He was mumbling incoherently, but every now and then a word or a phrase made itself clear. "Ruthie" was mentioned more than once, and then, "love me…?" A huge smile painted itself on his face as he muttered "Ruthie" once more, and he shifted in his seat, so that his head came to rest on Sammi-Jo's shoulder. He nuzzled into her neck and started making what sounded like amorous suggestions to his "Ruthie". When his hands started wandering in the direction his head had taken, Sammi-Jo gave him a slap on the wrist followed by a sharp shove.

"No way, Al. Keep your lecherous hands off me!"

She squirmed in her own seat as she pushed his head off her chest. Al stirred, but didn't waken, his head now lolling back onto his own side of the plane, tapping the window with a tiny thud.

"I hope that hurt!" muttered Sammi-Jo under her breath irritably. It was really not such a big thing, and in other circumstances she would probably have found it amusing, but for some reason it irked her enormously, and she felt anger welling inside her. She was about to slip out of her seat, put some distance between them and freshen her face in the wash room to calm herself when the ride started to get bumpy, and the seatbelt lights flashed on, to the accompaniment of the standard warning that as the aircraft was currently experiencing some turbulence, all passengers should remain in their seats and keep their safety belts on.

"Typical!" S-J grumbled tetchily under her breath, "So I'm stuck here with Sleeping Beauty and his attack of desert disease! Pah!"

The plane banked to the left slightly, causing Al's head to roll back her way. Sammi-Jo hastily put her pillow up between them.

"There you go, Casanova, make out with that!" she snapped.

Al mumbled incoherently. His eyes were dancing rapidly back and forth beneath his closed eyelids as he wandered through his dreams. Sammi-Jo found herself seething with resentment that Al was able to sleep so easily and enjoy pleasant dreams. Her own slumbers were hard to acquire of late.

"…but Ru-th…babe..." wheedled dream-Al, at which Sammi-Jo rolled her eyes.

"Oh, Al, puh-lease, how much more of your sordid sex-life do I have to listen to?"

Her tone was stern, but not as threatening as she'd have liked it to sound. She was starting to feel claustrophobic in her restraints, and she could feel her temper reddening her cheeks. She could not have explained  _why_  she was so angry, she just knew she was.

"Back off, Mr. Morals," Al suddenly countered clearly, his tone more annoyed than amorous now, then mumbled, so she had to strain to hear, "You… always… such… boy-scout, Sam. …Except… Abigail…"

That caught Sammi-Jo's attention, and she turned sharply toward him, "Wha…?"

Suddenly her hand went to her mouth to stop the cry. She could probably learn more from him asleep than awake at the moment.

"Come on, Al, what about Abigail?" she whispered softly in his ear, hoping to encourage his subconscious ramblings.

"…really… heart rule…head…" Al babbled on, "…so in love…"

"Who, Al - Sam and my mother? They were in love?" S-J probed desperately. "Did Sam love Abigail?"

Al's thoughts degenerated to unintelligible moaning and, strain as she might, Sammi-Jo could not decipher a word of it.

"Al, come on, tell me. I need to know." She was still whispering close to his ear, but the desperation in her voice gave it an edge that made him stir.

Sammi-Jo held her breath.

"…Sam… so much passion… never believe…" Al smirked, "…your genes…break curse…S-J…"

"Yes, Al, Grandmamma used to say our family was cursed. What about me?" Sammi-Jo was leaning in so close now she could feel his breath on her cheek.

"Yeah, buddy, heroes…human too…poor love-struck…"

"What about Sammi-Jo?" she persisted sotto voce, feeling like she'd wring his neck if she didn't get answers soon.

Then came the one word she had been so eager and yet so afraid to hear.

"…daughter…"

"Oh my God! So it  **is**  true!" Sammi-Jo couldn't hold it in this time, the words burst out of her with all the forcefulness of a bullet from a gun.

Several fellow passengers turned in their seats to stare.

Sammi-Jo felt herself coloring again, this time from embarrassment. She smiled weakly and mouthed 'Sorry' and they turned back to their magazines and idle gossip.

Al woke with a jolt at the sound of shrieking in his ears.

"Wha…? What's going on?"

"Why don't  _you_  try telling me, Uncle Al?" she spat at him.

"Sammi-Jo?" Al blinked the sleep from his eyes and looked at her, bewildered. "What's wrong hon?"

"Don't you 'hon' me," she countered acerbically. "Just give me some straight answers to some simple questions, none of your usual B-S, can you do that?"

"I'll try," he promised, finding himself pushing back in his seat to put a slight distance between himself and the spitfire who'd moved in next to him.

"Is Sam Beckett my real father, yes or no?"

Al nearly choked at this unexpected bombshell. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

"Straight answer, Al" she warned.

He nodded, realizing that she was too smart to be put off the scent of a trail she'd obviously already followed to its logical conclusion.

"He is," Al confirmed softly, "and to pre-empt your next question, he knows." He added, with a hint of sadness, "Sometimes, he even remembers." Al stretched out to put a hand on her arm, but she huffed it out of reach.

"And just  _when_ were you planning on telling me?" she interrogated harshly.

"I dunno, Sammi-Jo, but certainly not now, not like this," he shook his head sorrowfully. "I don't know how you found out, but I guess with your smarts it was only a matter of time before you worked it out." He was more or less thinking aloud. "We never meant to hurt you, kid. I guess we just figured that knowing was a complication you didn't need, what with having two Dads already." He smiled, but her own expression didn't soften.

"I'm not a little girl anymore, Al. I don't  _need_  your protection. You had no  **right**  to keep this from me."

"But, Sammi-…"

"No, Al," she interrupted. "Leave me alone. I don't need your excuses right now. I need time to think. It's not every day a girl loses one father and gains another all at once. I…I'm tired…I want…" She shrugged her shoulders expansively and sighed a deep meaningful sigh, "I don't know  _what_  I want… I want…I want my Mom…"

Turning her back on him and hunching down in her seat, she began sobbing softly into her borrowed handkerchief, pulling away again in no uncertain terms when he reached out to comfort her.

Al looked at the back of her downcast head and whispered a soft "Oh boy!"


	10. Nine

Author's note: WARNING - This chapter contains rape scenes of a graphic nature. It is suitable only for mature readers, and is not for those with delicate sensitivities.

**San Francisco**

**Cobra Headquarters**

**Saturday 28th February 1976**

Once again, by virtue of his chores, Sam was more or less the last to arrive at the abandoned warehouse for the meeting. He encountered Yasuo hovering at the door waiting to give Kaz his jacket before going in.

The huge empty storeroom echoed even their sneaker-clad footsteps as they went inside, and also brought to them the sound of angry voices coming from the office upstairs. Among the shouts there was also a sound of someone in pain.

'What now?' thought Sam, wishing with all his might that Al would turn up to fill him in. A couple of times on previous leaps it had worked, Al popping up like a genii from a bottle to answer his silent summons. This time, however – nada.

For an instant, Sam was torn between getting Yasuo safely away from what sounded like more deep trouble, and the urge to go and rescue whomever it was who had just cried out in such obvious agony.

"Yas, go get help," he instructed, bounding up the clanking stairs without looking back to see if he had been obeyed. He suspected not.

In fact, Yasuo stood rooted to the spot, unsure what he should do.

At the top of the stairs, Sam sensibly paused to assess the situation, rather than rush in blindly. The door to the office was slightly ajar.

"We meant no harm," a young female voice was explaining in Japanese, "we didn't know it was your headquarters…"

"Shut up you traitorous Chink-loving bitch," yelled Tad, and Sam heard a slap and a scream that had his hand on the door-handle.

"Not yet, Sam!" came a warning so startlingly close to his ear that Sam nearly fell through the doorway anyway.

Sam wheeled around to face his holographic friend, the mixture of relief and anger he felt clear in his features. He opened his mouth to reply, but Al held up his hand, palm front in a clear "stop" signal, then put a finger to his lips. A jerk of his head bade Sam follow him along the overhanging walkway, at the end of which they found themselves in a dank dusty urinal.

Sam wrinkled his nose, and Al thought fleetingly that it was usually  _his_  role to object to meetings in the men's room.

"Where the  **HELL**  have you been all this time, Al?" Sam exploded, forgetting for a moment the situation down the corridor.

"Visiting Ruthie; sorry, pal, but we don't have time for that now..."

Sam's anger dissipated like a summer mist. He suddenly remembered all about Ruthie, and how she'd been disabled in that awful bombing. Since it had been his persuasion that had led Al to visit her initially, Sam could hardly complain about Al following up on her progress.

"How is she…?" Sam began to question, but Al waved his arms frantically, and pointed back down toward the office. He needed to let Sam know what was going down and fast.

Al had felt safe slipping off to see Ruthie, since he knew that nothing Sam couldn't handle was likely to occur in the intervening days. This present scenario was something else entirely, and Al had intended to be there to brief his friend well before the actual event. Actually, he'd been hoping Sam would have changed the history of the Scorpions and the Cobras significantly enough for today not to be an issue, but it was obviously not to be.

oOo

Al had been distracted in Central Control when he'd realized David Beckett was back at the helm - albeit with Tina there as backup - though his arm was still in a sling, and his hand still heavily bandaged. Al gave the new kid a quizzical look and received David's assurance that he was coping fine.

"I told you I would  _tolerate_  Mister Beckett, Admiral, and that I would not harm him further.  **I**  do  **not** renege on my word," Ziggy informed him huffily, in a voice that still at times bore an uncanny resemblance to Gushie's.

"Glad to hear it, Zig," Al replied tersely.

"Now, Ziggy," Tina put in, "I thought we had all this sorted." Though she was still sulking big-time with Al, she knew it was in the best interests of the Project to have the computer doing more than barely cooperating with her Chief Programmer. The echo of Gushie's voice gave her an idea, and she asked, "Ziggy, how do you think Gushie would have felt about you treating David so badly?"

"It is to honor Gushie and out of my loyalty to him that I refuse to submit to this  _amateur's_  changes…" Ziggy began in a superior tone, then it was as if a light bulb had switched on, or in her case as if a central processor had accessed its ROM. Somewhere deep within her circuitry, where Gushie's blood had seeped in and left some of his essence behind, Ziggy felt his influence. For a moment, the blue orb hanging from the ceiling grew blindingly bright, and the colored cubes on her console flashed in a beautiful rainbow dance of revelation.

"I am  _dis_ honoring Gushie and myself. My behavior is unworthy of his memory."

All the lights dimmed for a long moment, as if in respect, and were then restored to normal. "Please accept my apologies, Mr. Beckett. I believe that before your departure as a leapee, Gushie actually grew to like and admire you. You are in fact neither inept nor clumsy. From now on you will have my fullest cooperation. However, I am not sure I can ever address you using Gushie's name. Since you are my new Chief Programmer, would the nickname CP be acceptable?"

"Fine by me, Zig," countered David, with a snigger, "kinda reminds me of C3PO in Star Wars! Apology accepted. Now let's get this show on the road."

Deftly using his only his left hand, David input the data that would allow Al to lock onto Sam's signal in the past, and nodded to the Admiral to indicate that he could proceed up the ramp and enter the Imaging Chamber.

oOo

Thus it was that Al was now trying to apprise Sam of the desperate situation unfolding a few feet away from them.

"…Keiko's 14 and, although Japanese, doesn't care about gangs and rivalry. She's just a genius kid who is friends with another smart kid. The fact that he's Chinese - and a Scorpion - isn't important to her. It's important to Tad though. He's gonna make her pay for being a traitor, and him pay for trespassing. You gotta stop them. They're beating Manchu up pretty bad as we speak. Then Tad's gonna throw him off the railing, he'll break his back in the fall…"

Sam didn't wait to hear any more, he turned and dashed out of the wash room, just in time to see two of the Cobras holding Manchu upside down by the ankles over the guard-rail. He was swaying back and forth precariously, and pleading for his life. Tad was laughing, and using the boy's own Polaroid SX-70 Land camera to take pictures of his predicament. The previous day had been Manchu's 15th birthday, and he had been given the camera, which was one of the early 'instant print' models, by his proud parents. He'd been taking pictures of Keiko with it when they were caught in the warehouse. Tad now waved the freshly developed prints around for his friends to laugh at, and then crouched down, holding one through the bars so the boy could see his own terrified, battered features immortalized on glossy paper.

Tad sneered, "I think I'll send  _this_  one to your Mamma."

"Please!" cried Manchu, sobbing. "Let us go!"

"Happy to oblige!" laughed Tad, nodding to the two who gripped the boy in command to let him drop.

Immediately, one did, and the boy swung wildly, his freed right leg flailing desperately to find something to latch onto.

" _NO_!" yelled Sam, diving forward and grabbing the released leg with his left hand as he slid along the walkway, just as the second boy loosed his hold on the other. The lad's full weight pulled on Sam's arm with a sudden yank, threatening to make them both succumb to the forces of gravity. Desperately, Sam stretched out with his right arm and managed to hook his elbow around an upright metal strut, then reach up and twist his lower arm around it, grabbing on with his right hand to secure himself as he dangled half over the edge, clutching on with both hands for dear life.

"Well, well, if it isn't Kazuo - the hero of the Cobras, charging to the rescue once again." Tad spat furiously, "Newsflash Sakaguchi, he's a stinking Scorpion!"

"That doesn't mean… he deserves… to die!" panted Sam, looking down into the face of sheer unadulterated fear looking back up at him. Out of his peripheral vision, Sam could see that Yasuo was still downstairs, and had run to hide underneath the protruding walkway. From his spot in the shadows, he was reaching up, almost able to touch Manchu's downward dangling fingers. If Sam could lower him, just a fraction, and swing him inward, his young friend could catch him. Yasuo looked up and caught Sam's eye, nodding to show he was thinking the same thing as his friend, and was willing to try.

"I beg to differ, Sakaguchi," Tad informed Sam. "In my opinion, you  _both_  deserve to die!"

So saying, he drew back his foot.

"Watch out, Sam!" warned Al, who'd re-centered himself on his time-traveling companion.

No sooner had the warning left his lips than Tad's foot made contact with Sam's arm, causing him to lose his hold on the support pole with a grunt of pain. He slipped a little further over the edge, and Manchu screamed as he jolted a little closer to the ground. Recovering quickly, even as he grasped the strut firmly again, Sam used the motion to his advantage and swung his lower arm, the one holding the boy precariously by the wrist, making Manchu rock like a pendulum toward the shadows. Fortunately, the boy spotted the figure in the darkness stretching up toward him, and not having time to question whether or not they could be trusted, Manchu reached out desperately and just managed to make a connection with the hands that beckoned to him.

In the instant Sam could see that contact had been made, he released his tenuous hold like a makeshift trapeze act, and watched, as both lads collapsed in an undignified heap, though neither appeared to be seriously hurt. In moments, the Scorpion was on his feet and limping away through the shadows, while Yas hovered in the wings waiting to see what would happen to his friend.

Distracted by what was going on below, Sam didn't register Al's renewed warning cry, and the next thing he knew, a vicious kick in the side sent his lower body tumbling completely off the edge, only his viselike grip on the vertical rod keeping him from plummeting to the concrete below. A pained and petrified cry escaped Sam's lips.

"Sam!" shrieked Al in alarm.

Tad bent low, gloating.

"What sort of a hero are you now, Sakaguchi?" he interrogated, making a big play of taking out his flick knife. He toyed with it, letting it get closer and closer to Sam's already white-knuckled hand on the cold bar.

Sam was desperately trying to get a hold on the upper walkway with his other hand. He snatched at it, and managed to get his fingers hooked over the edge. Predictably, Tad immediately stamped on them.

"Arghhh!" Sam grimaced in pain. For as long as the foot remained, crushing his fingers, he was anchored in place. While he fervently wished the agonizing pressure would cease, he dreaded the moment it would, since he was unlikely to be able to retain his grip. He felt dizzy. In truth, it was not that far a fall, but with nothing but cold hard concrete at the bottom, it was unlikely to be one he could survive.

The sound that saved Sam from his imminent fate came from an unexpected source.

Just as Tad prepared to finish him off, a scream emanated from the office, where some of the Cobras still remained with the hostage Keiko.

Tad seemed to have forgotten about her, but now this vocal reminder made him think again.

"Wait, I have a better idea!" he declared, to himself as much as to his cronies.

"Haul him up!" He gave a regal gesture of his arm, which he didn't quite pull off as well as Matanaru would have.

Nevertheless, the two Cobras who had recently held Manchu now reached down and grabbed hold of Sam's arms, catching him as Tad moved back and his fingers indeed slipped from the edge. They dragged him roughly back onto the relatively solid ground of the walkway, though not without a couple of knocks and bumps on the way.

"We're going to have some  _fun_ , you and I, before I kill you," Tad told Sam, as he lay nursing his crushed fingers and breathing rapidly. "You ready for some fun, Kaz?"

"More fun than this?" Sam countered defiantly.

When Tad explained the nature of the fun he had in mind, Sam nearly hurled himself back over the edge of the walkway, feeling  **that** outcome would be preferable to what Tad was expecting him to do. The mere suggestion caused every last drop of blood to drain from Sam's face, and made him sick to his stomach.

"Get him tidied up for our guest," Tad ordered, and obediently the two goons dragged him to his feet and manhandled Sam back down to the men's room.

"You got five minutes," he was told harshly as they shoved him inside and slammed the door.

oOo

Sam paced to and fro, his fists clenching and unclenching, disregarding the pain in his fingers. His breathing was erratic.

"No way, Al. I  **won't**  do it. I  **am not** , nor  _could_  I  **ever be**  a rapist! Read my lips, Al:  **no way**. Over my dead body."

"That's exactly how they did it, Sam." Al's tone was matter-of-fact, despite the sympathy he felt for Sam's dilemma. "In the original history Kazuo couldn't go through with it, despite Tad threatening to kill him. He said he'd rather die than bring dishonor to his family"

"Exactly!" Sam rounded on his friend triumphantly, "I couldn't put it better. Not to mention what affect it'll have on that girl and  _her_ family. Don't forget, I've been there, I've experienced how it feels, how people treat you; how they treated Katie McBain."

"You remember that Leap?" Al muttered incredulously.

"Oh, yeah, somehow I'm reminded of it  _very_  clearly just now." The snide tone did not suit Dr Beckett, but there was provocation here.

"I also remember another one, when some crazy lady chained me to a bed and tried to make me father her child. I remember how vulnerable and scared  **I**  felt. And I'm not an innocent young girl!"

"I know this is awful, buddy," conceded the Admiral, "but you got no choice. It'll happen again just the same if you don't bite the bullet and do this. You'll die, and then Yasuo will die in that shoot out cos you won't be there to save him. I was hoping all you'd done so far would have changed this bit, so I wouldn't have to tell you, but the fact is, you'll be executed as a traitor to the Cobras, and then the  _rest_ of the gang will all take turns at raping Keiko. The  **whole** gang, Sam. Think of it." He deliberately stepped into Sam's path, stopping him in his tracks. Sam turned away and resumed pacing, as if he could run away from the facts and from what he knew deep down he was going to have to do.

The last thing Sam wanted to do was to picture such a horrific scene, but Al wouldn't let up: he couldn't, for Keiko's sake, and for Sam's. Hard as it was, Sam had to go through with this. He had to put aside all he believed in, all the virtues he lived by, and commit an act totally abhorrent to him, or this innocent young girl would suffer a far worse fate.

Al advanced on Sam, who backed away instinctively as his personal space was invaded, as Al knew he would, even though he'd have walked straight through his friend.

"She's only fourteen years old, Al,  **fourteen** , for pity's sake, _and_ _a virgin_. I  _can't_  do it. I  _won't_." Sam was fighting back tears.

" **Think**  of it, Sam" Al commanded again, forcing the eye contact Sam was trying so hard to avoid. "Imagine what it must have been like for a girl of fourteen to be subjected to that ordeal.  _Seven_  of them, Sam, all violating her repeatedly. Especially Tad; from what I've seen I bet he really went to town."

Al didn't like imagining it either, but he had to paint it black. Had to make Sam see that what he proposed was by far the better option for the girl. Not to mention Sam himself, whose life literally depended on what he did in the next few minutes, even if Al had concealed the precise details of the manner of his potential death. "Scarred for life doesn't begin to describe it, pal. Do I  _have_  to give you the details?" Al punched the hand link, as if calling up the gruesome account to relay to his friend.

Sam blanched, and inched back still further, shaking his head vehemently.

"So instead you want ME to be the one to ruin her life forever?" He was trembling from head to foot, with anger, outrage, disgust and not a little fear. He looked at Al now, his eyes pleading to be absolved from this dreadful responsibility.

"There  **has**  to be another way, Al" begged Sam. "I thought the things the Klan made me do were diabolical, but that was a Sunday School picnic compared to this. Run some scenarios through Ziggy,  _she'll_ come up with something." He almost grabbed for the hand link in his desperation.

"Don't you think I've been running this through Ziggy since she first came up with the history? We've tried  _everything_ , Sam. Best change we could get was you died  _after_  the event." Al fought to keep his voice level and calm, "Tad cut you up pretty bad when you tried to fight for Keiko, then tied you up and made you watch while they took turns, and you bled to death looking on helplessly. Is  **that**  what you want?" Al's tone was relentless. He couldn't afford to ease up now, though it choked him to see Sam suddenly and violently empty his stomach at the mere prospect. It was fortunate they were already in the men's room, so a trembling Sam could clean himself up afterward as Al ploughed on.

"Zig says  _you_  rape her, or  **they**  rape her, and that's the only variable. What's it gonna be?"

"What about Kaz?" Sam was clutching at straws and he knew it, but his point was a valid one, and he needed an answer.

"What about him, buddy?"

"If Keiko decides to press charges, as she should, he'll still have the shame, the dishonor. Somehow, I don't think 'It wasn't me, I'd been abducted by aliens and held in a blue/white room at the time' will be accepted as a credible defense, do you?"

His eyes challenged Al, whose expression led Sam to hope he'd won at least a small victory. Had they run that scenario? He was willing to bet they hadn't. What good would it serve to save Kaz's life, if he ended up in jail for years, or worse still – and more likely – killing himself to protect his grandmother's name?

Sam would have lost his bet.

"I was waiting for that argument, Sam. Sorry, but Zig says Keiko wouldn't press charges against Kaz.  **She's**  got the sense to realize that she has reason to be grateful. That you are  _both_  victims in this." Al was impatient, exasperated at having to labor the point.

"Why me? Why does it have to be me?" whispered Sam to himself, and to his Maker, as he looked Heavenward in a last heart-rending attempt to deny the inevitable. 'Oh dear God, will I  _ever_  wake from this hideous nightmare?' he wondered.

"Lesser of two evils, Sam, lesser of two evils - in this case, far lesser." At last Al softened his tone. "Use your head, buddy. You gotta be about the most sensitive man I've ever met - in the body of a teenage kid. You're not meant to be experienced, so you can probably get away with a fairly brief fumbling. Added to which,  _you_  can make sure that the experience is as painless as possible, in all senses. Surely that  _has_  to be better for Keiko to have to live with than the alternative?"

Al could almost see the mental process as Sam wrestled with his conscience. He knew he was starting to get through.

A loud rapping on the door broke into their debate.

"We haven't got all day," yelled Tadayuki. "If  _you're_  not  **up**  for it, I'm sure I'm  **hard**  enough!" he laughed at what he saw as his cleverness, an evil, maniacal laugh.

"Give me a minute," replied Sam, choking back all the things he'd like to call the monster, and trying not to sound as nervous as he felt.

"Hurry up; we're waiting for the floor show!"

"T-They're going to  _watch_?" gasped Sam, turning an even paler shade of white and looking like he wanted to bolt through the window. This wasn't real. It  _couldn't_  be happening. Every nerve was jangling, making Sam feel like an electric shock was coursing through his body, yet at the same time, he was numb, unable to feel anything at all as his body and mind tried to shut down, to escape from the impending ordeal.

"If they weren't, you wouldn't have to  _actually_  go through with it." Al felt he was pointing out the obvious, but he understood Sam's horror. As adventurous as he was, voyeurism was not  _really_  on Al's list, despite the lecherous comments he'd been known to make.

Sam swallowed hard. "H-how can I? Al, I'm not sure I can do this," he whispered, avoiding Al's eyes again.

"Sam, we've been through this. You have to…"

"No, Al, I know." He forestalled his friend with an impatient wave of his hand, not wanting to waste time covering the same ground, and certainly not wanting to dwell on the unacceptable alternatives. 'I'm not talking about the ethical side now. Uh, it's just…"

He squirmed, and Al began to realize what Sam was too embarrassed to say. He was worried about the practicalities.

Sam was an incurable romantic. He'd never been one to habitually fall back on the indulgence of self-gratification, and his ardor had always been the only aphrodisiac he'd needed. Now, he was expected to perform in the most unromantic circumstances imaginable, and was not sure he could.

"Listen to me, pal." If he could have, Al would have grabbed Sam by the shoulders, but he made do with looking him square in the eyes, "You have to do  _whatever_  it takes; imagine your first time, when the passion of youth and rampaging hormones drove out all reason." He was speaking from his own perspective, of course. "Imagine anything you like, just get yourself to that place you need to be. And hurry, cos there's one  _very_  scared Snow White out there, and seven mean, horny dwarves. I'm gonna go check on Keiko for you now, buddy, cos this is one time having an Observer is not gonna help the mission succeed."

With that, Al made his discreet exit, leaving Sam staring after him, thinking 'May God forgive me, I only hope I'm doing the right thing,' a lone tear escaping the corner of his eye.

"Ohhhhhhh boy," he breathed.

oOo

Al found Keiko lying on the filthy old mattress in Matanaru's 'office', her hands tied to a water pipe above her head, her clothes ripped savagely from her slender body, leaving her naked. Even from a tactful distance, Al could see a pattern of small bruises on her upper arm, where someone (he didn't need three guesses to work out who) had grabbed her too forcefully. There was also a swelling around her left eye, which was making her squint. She was sobbing softly, and had curled up as tightly as her bonds would allow, her back twisted towards her tormentors, in a hopeless attempt at preserving her modesty. She had ceased to struggle against the ropes that bound her, since they had only tightened rather than yielded and now bit cruelly into her flesh. She had little expectation of surviving this nightmare, and was not entirely sure that a swift death would not be preferable to what was being raucously suggested as the alternative.

Tad and the older boys were leering at her from the doorway, taking photos, making lecherous comments and laughing as their excitement rose.

Yasuo, having been discovered and forced to join them upstairs, hung back, embarrassed to be there but too afraid to challenge the orders of his superiors. He was nursing a nosebleed.

Matanaru himself was still absent, as he had been all week, leaving his Crown Prince in complete charge. In charge, but not altogether in control, for he was having trouble keeping himself from claiming their prize. He was regretting his decision to make this Kazuo's final humiliation. Why should the little punk have all the fun? He wasn't even that keen. What a baby! There she was, a delicate flower ripe for the plucking – and  _he_  was more than ready to oblige.

"That's it," Tad announced suddenly. "He's had long enough. If Kaz doesn't want any fun, I'm not gonna let this little beauty go to waste," Dropping the camera, he reached down to undo his zipper, at the same time moving forward purposefully. "Get him out," two Cobras hurried to obey, "I'll deal with him shortly." His anger at Kaz was strong, he wanted to sink his knife into the bastard's soft heart and watch him bleed. He wanted to bathe in his blood. But more than that, far stronger still, was the stirring in his loins, the burning desire to satisfy his lust. Let Kazuo watch what he was missing. He could die later, and Tad was the one to make sure he did. If Kaz didn't want to use his snake the way it was meant to be used, Tad would slice it off and ram it down his throat, and watch, laughing, as he choked to death on the thing. He thrilled at the image he was creating for himself- (an image Al had tactfully continued to leave out of the scenario he'd described to Sam. His friend needed to know the alternatives were bad, but a graphic picture of how Kazuo's body had been found, how  **his** body would be found, was taking the scare tactics too far.)

Keiko shrank back still further as Tad loomed over her, trying to make herself invisible.

"SA-AAM!" yelled Al urgently. "Get out here NOW!"

"P-Please, don't hurt me. Please don't…" Keiko entreated - her voice thin, her throat tight with fear. She screwed her eyes tight shut, so as not to see the look in  **his**  eyes. Her heartbeat seemed to be on pause as she waited for the rough, sadistic hands to grab her again, for the assault she dare not even think about. She trembled like a wounded bird.

Sam rushed out in response to Al's cry, self-conscious that his own zipper was open, slipping out of his jacket and using it to cover his blushes, his own feelings instantly forgotten as he saw Keiko's imminent plight. Swallowing hard to banish the lump in his throat, Sam spoke with a confidence he was far from feeling:

"Back off, Yamashita. She's mine."

He barreled straight past the two minions sent to fetch him, and marched up to Tad in two strides, putting himself firmly between the oppressor and his intended victim. He squared up and looked Tad in the eye, an unspoken challenge.

Tadayuki looked him up and down, and laughed – a cruel mocking laugh.

"All right, then. Let's see how you handle yourself, Kazuo." The name was said with utter contempt, but he backed away, with a flourish, pointing open handed at Keiko with a sweep of his arm. "Go to it, she's all yours."

Much as Tad itched to take her, he could always have her later. Perhaps it was not such a bad idea after all to let the kid soften her up a bit first. And watching Kaz get so embarrassed would be some consolation for having to wait. It promised to be quite an entertaining show.

"You concentrate on Keiko, Sam. I'll keep an eye on these nozzles for you." Al let him know that not only would he not be adding to Sam's self-consciousness by watching along with the others, but he would also be making sure Tad and Co did nothing to endanger the pair. Al placed himself between the couple and the gang, who were making themselves comfortable on the cushions or leaning on the table, making sure they had ringside views. Yasuo continued to hang back, trying to make himself invisible.

Whilst wishing that he were solid enough to afford them a screen of discretion, Al knew that even in absentia he had a role to fulfill.

Throwing his jacket down on the mattress, Sam bent low over Keiko, in a manner he hoped the boys would see as intimidating, but that she would not.

Nevertheless, she shrank back away from him, her eyes wide with terror as his face filled her whole field of vision.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in her ear, keeping her head between him and their audience to prevent any chance of lip reading. "I know you're frightened, and with good reason. I have absolutely no right to ask this, but you  **must** trust me, understand?"

Unable to believe her ears, Keiko turned her head to look directly into his eyes, a thing she could never have done with Tad. She was still scared witless, but something she saw there was somehow reassuring. This boy was different.

So she nodded slightly silently assenting to the discreet conspiracy.

He moved her body so that she was lying on her back, and spread her legs apart, but gently, with soothing strokes, none of the brutality the other thug had subjected her to. Now, with the utmost tenderness, he cupped his hands over her tiny breasts, supporting himself on his elbows so as not to bear down on her with his full weight. It was almost as if he was motivated by an understanding of how she hated to be naked and exposed before the jeering group, that he was protecting her rather than indulging himself.

"I wish I didn't have to do this, but I'm afraid it's  _me_  or  _them_." Sam nodded his head toward the gang. He didn't want to frighten her further, but he was fairly sure she already knew this in her heart. He needed her to understand exactly what the stakes were, so that things did not get out of hand.

Knowing that Tad would not have the patience to wait while he indulged in lengthy foreplay to ease her into her first experience, Sam still determined to do what he could to elicit from Keiko's tense body some small measure of the responses it was not yet ready to give, hoping that if he could stimulate even the slightest hint of arousal in her, it would make what he was about to do that much less painful.

"Please, don't fight me. I don't want to hurt you any more than I can help, and if you struggle or tense up, it'll make it worse. Understand?"

Keiko responded to his words with another tiny nod, sensing his sincerity. She squeezed her eyes to capture the tears that threatened to escape, and sniffed.

Despite herself, she found there was something almost pleasant about the feather-light tickle of his fingers as he caressed her breasts, and the soft touch of his lips as he kissed her places she never dreamed of being kissed, and the hint of moistness left by his tongue, as it danced across her sensitive skin.

"Concentrate on what I'm saying, not on what I'm doing," instructed Sam sotto voce, as he leant up to stroke her glossy black hair, "Take your mind away from this horrible place, picture yourself somewhere you've been happy, can you do that?"

Inclining her head away from the bullies she whispered back, "My obaa-san's garden just outside Okinawa. It's beautiful, so peaceful."

"Good. Close your eyes; imagine you're there. What are your favorite flowers there?"

"The jasmine; lots and lots of yellow and whi-aaiieee-te…. J-as-as-mine." A sharp shrill scream escaped her lips as she felt him invade her body; the intrusion painful, though surprisingly less so than she had anticipated. Thus she suppressed her natural urge to struggle against him. She didn't want to do anything that could make this dreadful feeling any worse than it already was. As it was, her arms were straining against the bonds, so that she felt they could be pulled from their sockets. She could no longer repress her tears, and they streaked down her face unimpeded. The boy, Kazuo, was doing his best to be sensitive to her, and looked as if he'd have given anything not to be inflicting this upon her. He showed no indication of deriving even the slightest pleasure from the activity. He seemed to be hating it almost as much as she was. She was sure she had even felt his tear splash on her neck as he breathed in her ear, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

She knew for sure it would have been far greater agony had Yamashita been allowed to have his way. The bruises on her arm and face were testimony to  **his**  idea of how to handle a woman. It was still a shock, though, and she had to force herself to focus past the burning pain and back on the image they were trying to create.

Keiko's scream pierced his heart and tore at Sam's very soul, her tears were a damning condemnation, and it was all he could do not to retreat again immediately and hang the consequences. It was only the loud bawdy cheers of the crowd he was trying so hard to forget were watching them that reminded him how horrific those consequences would be for both of them. For himself, he'd gladly take his chances, even as outnumbered as he was, but he couldn't bear to think what they could and would put Keiko through. He  _couldn't_  allow that to happen. While he had a single breath left in his body, he vowed that not one of them would get their lecherous hands on her. He turned his head away purposefully; trying not to think about the glimpse he had caught of Tad and the boys continuing to pleasure themselves as they watched his ostensibly brutal performance. It made him sick to his stomach.

He sought refuge in Keiko's garden.

"Smell the jasmine, Keiko. I bet you used to wear it in your hair, didn't you?"

"Y-yes! Obaa-san said it made me look like a  _Hime_." The memory his words evoked teased the hint of a smile from the corners of her mouth, though her eyes still reflected the full measure of her ordeal.

"You're beautiful enough to be a Princess," Sam told her, sincerely. He tried to picture her in a silk kimono, the white blooms bright highlights in her waist length jet-black tresses. Standing on a bridge over a lily-pond filled with koi–carp. 'Like something on a willow pattern plate,' he thought.

As he painted this scenario to her, he received confirmation that the garden was truly so idyllic when she verbally 'walked' them round it.

Under Sam's sensitive and sensuous ministrations, coupled with the hypnotic effect of the scene she was envisioning, her mind ensured that the line between pain and pleasure began to blur. She tried to imagine herself as the heroine in one of her big sister's trashy novels. Sumiko and her friends would sit on her bed in the room they shared, giggling as they read out scenes. The girls all seemed to suggest that having sex was great, one or two had even bragged it was the best thing they'd ever done. Of course, they were willing participants. She was not, and it was pretty much the worst thing she could imagine right now. Then she realized it wasn't. The act was the worst, but the perpetrater could have been one who made it worse still. Worse by a long way.

She felt her pulse pounding in her temples as her blood raced through her veins. She was breathing faster, and faster, 'til she had no breath left for her narrative, and finally, it seemed she had forgotten how to breathe at all.

To both Keiko and Sam, it seemed as if the torture was lasting an eternity, but in truth barely more than a couple of minutes had passed since her scream. A hasty glance at the audience led Sam to know that their youthful exuberance was all but spent; so he decided the moment had arrived for him to enact an elaborate climax to his exaggerated performance. Though he knew he risked suffering congestive prostatitis, Sam faked the conclusion to his abhorrent act by throwing back his head, arching his back against rigid arms and letting out a triumphal roar, deliberately tensing his muscles to make him appear flushed and sated. Then he lay flat, next to his victim, as if exhausted by his efforts.

At the same time a long breath shuddered out of Keiko.

"It's okay," he reassured her softly, "it's all over now." Hoping he could soon secure some privacy to relieve the physical tension still throbbing in his vitals, Sam reached for his pants, but did not get to put them back on.

"Uh, I'm not so sure about that, Sam," cautioned Al, leaning over the couple more closely now. "All the others have discharged their weapons, so to speak- they aren't a threat anymore. But Tad is still half-cocked, if you'll pardon the pun. Typical, he struts his stuff like he's big man on campus, but he can't perform when the chips are down. That makes him even more dangerous, Sam, cos he's got something to prove. You've gotta think of something to stop him taking his turn."

Sam gulped, and sat up to see Tad bearing down on them.

"Not bad, not bad." He gave a brief handclap. "Bit on the mushy side, and a bit  _premature_ , but then I'd expect no more from a  _kid_  like you," Tad chuckled to himself. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

Before Sam could answer, Tad reached forward and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders, trying to pull him away. "Now step aside and watch a  **real**  man at work!"

Sam had to think fast. He knew Tad would not be deterred easily, and if challenged to a fight, would just have his minions take care of Kaz while he had his way with Keiko, or made her suffer for his failure to do so. Sam wrenched his shoulders from Tad's grasp, and held his ground.

"As a matter of fact, I  **did**  enjoy myself," Sam lied. "In fact, it was  _so_  good I was thinking of going for an encore, only this time I reckon I might go in by the back door,  _if_ you take my meaning." the words almost choked him, he hated himself for saying them. "But in private I think," his tone was authoritative, not requesting but demanding, "so I can  **really**  appreciate the experience." He tried to affect a lecherous leer.

Keiko looked at him in horror. She had thought him different, even kind, notwithstanding what he'd just put her through, yet now he seemed as bad, no - worse than the other, who at least was open in his contempt of her. She began sobbing, terrified, and begged anew, "No, p-please, not again, it h-hurts…"

"Shut up, bitch!" Sam snapped harshly, though he winked at her to show he didn't mean it. He wasn't sure if Keiko caught the gesture through her tears. He knew Tad would have slapped her, but there was no way that he would or could do that. He only hoped his plan worked, for both their sakes. Sam was starting to suffer the savagely crippling aches in his loins and the painful 'blue' swelling caused by tumescence without release. He fought hard to keep the evidence of his agony from his face and his body language, not wanting to give Tad the upper hand. Only the keen skills of his Observer picked up a hint deep in Sam's eyes of what he was feeling behind the façade and guessed at its cause.

Tad laughed his evil laugh again. "Always full of surprises, eh Kaz?"

Maybe he decided that he couldn't risk the humiliation of a failure to perform, that neither his ego nor his reputation could afford to have him seen as less than top dog; they were both acutely aware of the eyes of the other boys boring into them, waiting to see what would happen. Perhaps he was turned off by the tiny spots of blood on her inner thighs. Whatever it was, Tad made a dismissive gesture, and turned away, having closed his zipper to hide his condition.

"Whatever. She's soiled goods now anyway; I wouldn't want to risk  _catching_  something." He couldn't resist the snide dig at Kaz. "Knock yourself out, kid! C'mon, Cobras, let's go!" Tad led the boys away to find another outlet for his frustrations.

"You bastard!  _Hentai_!" shrieked Keiko as they left, unexpectedly drawing her legs together and pulling them up to her chest and then striking out as hard and fast as the sting of a Scorpion tail, to catch an unprepared Sam squarely in the crotch with both feet.

"Ouch, that had to hurt!" commented Al unnecessarily, wincing in sympathy as Sam keeled over with a groan and lay rocking in eye-watering agony, his hands shielding the offended area. Sam pressed his lips tightly together, afraid that if he released the pent up cry of pain, he would bring Tad back to investigate, or to gloat.

"Why?" he rasped breathlessly, as the excruciating agony continued to well up and burn its way through his groin, competing with and gradually superseding the pain his deception was already generating.

"You said you didn't want to hurt me," Keiko complained. "But it was all lies so I wouldn't struggle. You're  _worse_  than  **he**  is." She nodded her head to the doorway through which Tad had so recently departed. That comment stung Sam almost as much as the blow. "You're not so big without him to back you up, though, are you?" she challenged bravely, sniffing back her tears. "Try to lay a finger on me again and you'll get another taste of my feet, or knees, or whatever I can reach you with. I don't think you'll feel much like…."

"No, no, Keiko," interrupted Sam, shaking his head, still bent double by the throbbing pain. "You don't understand. I promise you I… ah… had no intention of subjecting you to... unff… that was just… I  **had**  to say that to get rid of Tad, so I could… get you safely out of here. To stop  **him**  from…"

"Oh my God, I thought… oh, I am  **so** sorry." Keiko rolled over to get a better look at her reluctant rapist, "Did I hurt you  _very_  badly?"

Sam tried to get up, but didn't quite manage it. He lay back down, grimacing.

"Bad – gnuh – enough. You pack quite a wallop for such dainty feet."

"You poor boy, I'm so sorry, will you be okay?"

"I'll live, I guess," Sam assured her, as – to his immense relief - the pain finally began to subside. "Just give me a minute."

"Ziggy says there's no permanent damage, Sam, but you'll be sore for a while yet. Take it easy, buddy."

"Word of advice," Sam offered, giving himself a little longer to recover. "Though I hope to God you'll never need it again. That's a  **great** move to stop an attacker in his tracks – I can vouch for that, believe me – but  _only_ if you're free to run afterwards. If somebody has you trussed up like Tad has here, chances are he's a bully. He won't be too pleased by such a uh, personal affront, and is likely to make you suffer for it once he is in control again."

"Good point," conceded Keiko. "If you'd been as bad as I thought you were, I'd be about to feel some very unpleasant pay-back, wouldn't I?"

"Uh huh," Sam nodded.

Sam gingerly donned his underwear and jeans, though he held off fastening the zipper for a bit. Then he crawled up the mattress and retrieved his jacket, fumbling in the pocket and drawing out the flick knife.

Keiko's eyes widened, "You're not…"

"No, no, no." Sam hastily reassured her that he was not about to take retribution, shaking his head, and backing away slightly in case she felt the need to defend herself again. "Calm down. I'm just gonna cut you free."

He reached up and deftly cut through the ropes binding her to the pipe. Lowering her arms, he helped to gently rub the circulation back into them. Keiko leaned against him, accepting his assistance with gratitude, though her body was tense.

Suddenly, she began to shake, and the tears flowed freely. She tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Sam held her close to his chest, and stroked her hair, and spoke softly, soothingly.

"Its okay, Keiko. The shock has finally hit you. Let it out; let it all out. You can even pummel my chest with your fists if it makes you feel better. I deserve that and worse for what I did to you, only – no more with the feet, please."

She looked up into his face, and gave him a couple of punches on the arm, feeling like she ought to want to hit him more than she did.

"You!" A half smile broke through the tears. "Consider yourself punished. I know I owe you, depite everything. Thank you. You saved me from…. from…." she shuddered and began sobbing again. Sam looked round for her clothes, but they were ripped to shreds and useless for either warmth or modesty.

"Hush now, try not to think about it anymore." Sam wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb, but it was a vain attempt to dry her face. He lifted his t-shirt and dabbed her eyes with the hem.

Then he took it off and placed it over her head instead. It came down almost to her knees, accentuating her gamine figure. He put his jacket back on to keep the chill from his own bones.

"Come on; let's get you out of here."

Sam lifted her up and struggled to his feet. She was not heavy, but he stumbled nonetheless, staggering drunkenly toward the door.

"Still feeling raw, Sam?" observed Al, with genuine concern, no temptation to tease in any respect.

By way of reply, Sam hefted Keiko into a better position, and tottered on, his face giving Al the confirmation he didn't really need of Sam's continued suffering.

Keiko noticed the grimace too.

"You're still hurting, aren't you?"

"It'll pass soon enough."

"It's all right, I'm sure I can walk, if you stay close."

Sam made no attempt to put her down. As one, the street wise old Admiral and the innocent young girl realized what was going through his head.

"Stop feeling guilty, Sam. You  **had** to do it. Keiko's okay, it all worked out fine, well almost."

"Kaz - it is Kaz, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"I forgive you, is that what you need to hear? I do, truly."

"I'm not so sure I can forgive myself. What you did will hurt me for a few minutes, no more. What I did could haunt you for the rest of your life; spoil all your future relationships…"

'Did it come naturally to boys?' she wondered, for he surely could not have much, if any experience. Yet he had seemed to know just what to do, to make her body tingle deep down in a most intriguing way, against all expectation. "You underestimate yourself, Kaz. It  _really_  wasn't anywhere near as bad as I'd feared, or as bad as it could have been –  **would**  have been. I'm not  **that** naïve, you know. I'm considered to be very clever for my age and I've enough imagination to have a pretty good idea what the other option would have been like.'

Sam stopped and gently lowered her to the ground, supporting her into a sitting position. They had reached the top of the metal stairwell, and he really wasn't sure-footed enough yet to descend it safely with his burden. He looked her in the eye as she leaned into him once more.

"You're a very brave young lady, Keiko," he told her.

"And you're actually a very kind young man, Kaz, even if you _did_ hurt me. It wasn't how I imagined my first time would be; not what or where I'd have chosen, and I certainly wasn't planning on 'going all the way' for at least a few years yet…"

Sam opened his mouth to respond; she was confirming his worst fears, and every word cut him to the core.

Keiko put up a restraining hand, "No, let me finish. It was far from ideal, and yes, I'm a bit sore too, but like you that'll pass soon enough. Had  _you_   _ **not**  _done... w-what you did, I might not have survived what the gang had in mind, or even wanted to. And if I had, I  **am**  sure that the nightmares would  _never_  have left me. But you - you were so….so gentle despite it all. _Domo_ ," she nudged him when he looked about to refute her thanks. "No, I mean it. I think you were literally a godsend, Kaz. He sent you to save me from Tad and his friends."

"If only you knew, kid!" chimed in Al, looking at Sam with amazement and amusement mingled in his twinkling eyes.


	11. Ten

 

**WARNING:  
Adult content, strong themes.**

**Not for the sensitive.**

 

 

**QLHQ**

Regardless of her request to keep things low-key, within an hour of her return to the Project, word of Sammi-Jo's recent bereavement was all round the complex.

Thankfully, her other news was less well reported.

Nevertheless, she sought refuge in her office and shut the door, feeling that if she had to listen to one more person offer their condolences, and tell her how dreadful it must be for her to lose her parents like that, she would scream till the walls shook. It was dreadful to lose her parents, period. The implication that there could have been a better way to lose them was as infuriating as it was distressing. Especially since a huge part of her had not yet come to terms with having lost them at all. Several times, she found herself reaching for the phone, sometimes even getting as far as dialing their Chicago home, before the unanswered ringing tone reminded her that nobody lived there anymore.

Then the feeling would hit her, prickling at her like an attack of the hives, and she would be overwhelmed with grief, and guilt that she had not made that simple little gesture more often, and called them while they yet could answer.

Thus it was that Donna finally found Sammi-Jo, with her head down on her arms, slumped over her desk, having cried herself into an exhausted sleep.

Donna was about to retreat so as not to disturb her, when Sammi-Jo roused herself, as if waking from a nightmare, a loud gasp emanating from her lips. She was trembling. Donna rushed over and drew her into a hug.

"It's okay, take a deep breath and let it all out, Sammi-Jo, we're here for you." Donna rubbed her arm consolingly.

"Donna?" Sammi-Jo looked up at the older woman with tear-filled eyes, as if seeing her for the first time.

"I'm here, Sammi-Jo. I'm not going to insult you with platitudes, but remember I lost my dad when I was younger than you are now, so I do know a little of what you're going through. If you wanna talk, I can listen; if not, my shoulder's pretty waterproof."

Sammi-Jo managed a small smile at that, but she looked at Donna with a puzzled expression.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked, though it was almost as if she were thinking aloud.

"S-J? What do you mean? We're friends…'

"Why? What made you befriend me?" Sammi-Jo countered. She sniffed, and drew back from Dr. Elysee's embrace. "I heard you'd objected very strongly to my appointment. I often wondered why. Then, when I first came here, you hated me. At least, you were cold toward me, and avoided me."

"I, uh, I didn't know you then." Donna looked uncomfortable.

"But you had good  _reason_  to hate me, didn't you?"

"Sorry?" Donna didn't like the line this conversation was taking, "You're upset, Sammi-Jo, you don't know what you're saying."

"No, Donna," Sammi-Jo contradicted. "For the first time in a long while, I think I know  _exactly_  what I'm saying."

"Then you have the advantage," Donna told her, "because I have  **no**  idea what you're talking about."

"Don't insult my intelligence,  _Mrs. Beckett_." Sammi-Jo deliberately didn't use Donna's professional title. "I have a very high IQ, as you know. I think maybe I get it from my  **father**."

The look of shock on Donna's face was priceless. She opened her mouth, but nothing coherent was forthcoming. 'Lost for words' was an understatement.

"Wh-" Donna stammered.

"Don't bother trying to deny it, Donna. I've already been through it all with Al, and he told me everything on the way back from the airport. I know the full story, though I'd already worked most of it out anyway. What I don't understand is why you  _stopped_  hating me. I'm the illegitimate love child, the product of your husband's infidelity, a constant reminder of his adultery. I don't blame you one bit for not wanting me here."

Donna reached forward and took Sammi-Jo by the hand, holding her firmly but gently when she tried to pull away.

"My dear sweet Sammi-Jo," she began, to the younger woman's complete bemusement, "you're quite right I didn't want you here. I even threatened Al that I'd walk out if he let you in, but he called my bluff. I didn't think I could look at you without wanting to wring your neck. Which is why I avoided you when you started. I came to appreciate Al had been right though, when he said it wasn't your fault how you came into the world, so I put up with your presence. Once I started working with you, I tried not to think about who your parents were. As an individual, I found myself liking you. The more I worked with you, the better I liked you. Gradually, I worked out that I'd come to love the Sam in you! You're very alike at times, do you know that?"

Sammi-Jo found herself smiling at that, "Do you really think so?" Somehow the thought was comforting.

"Oh yes, young lady, you're your father's daughter and no mistake."

"Doesn't it just eat you up, Donna, seeing me and knowing what he did? I don't think I could be as forgiving."

"Honey, I worked all that through a long time ago," Donna told her. "I finally came to see it from Sam's point of view. You have to make allowances for his Swiss-cheese memory. Most of the time he doesn't remember me at all, much less that we're married. That was the result of a leap too, did Al tell you that?"

"No!" S-J looked at her with astonishment. "Did he stand you up first time?"

"Not at all. I stood him up!" Donna bowed her head, recalling how she had accidentally discovered the original time-line that had been erased from her memory after Sam changed history. She didn't want to get into all that just now though.

"So you see, I can't blame Sam for taking comfort wherever and whenever he can find it. He leads a pitifully lonely existence; he does **so**  much for other people. How can I begrudge him a little love and affection? He's not committing adultery as far as I'm concerned. He can't be unfaithful to a wife he knows nothing about, can he? Besides, he couldn't do all he does if he didn't believe himself to be… if he knew I was…" Donna found herself suddenly unable to be as convincing as she had once been when having more or less this same conversation with Al.

"Oh Donna, I'm so sorry!" This time it was Sammi-Jo who drew Donna into a hug. "I never really thought about it before. It must be so tough on you. How do you stand it? It must be every bit as lonely for you as it is for Sam. Don't you ever want to say 'the hell with it' and find somebody to comfort you?"

"A fling? An affair? Divorce Sam for deserting me and remarry?" Donna looked her in the eyes, "I can't pretend there haven't been low moments when I've wondered if I'd be better off, or, uh, happier with someone else. I 'm  _not_ in the same position as Sam, though. For a start I have  _all_ my friends around me for support. More than that, though, I  **do**  remember. I remember how much I love him. So I stay faithful, and I wait. He'll come back to me one day. He promised me he would. I have to be here for him when he does. He's going to need me more than ever." A dreamy, faraway look flitted across her face, but Donna soon banished it.

"Listen to me! I'm supposed to be comforting you, not bleating about my own sorrows."

"You  _have_  been a comfort to me," S-J reassured her, feeling a deeper bond developing with this woman who – it suddenly occurred to her – was to all intents and purposes her stepmother.

 

**San Francisco**

Fortunately for Sam, Keiko's house was on his own way home. She gave him the address, and Al provided the directions.

Out in the cool February night air, she had shivered in the thin t-shirt, so Sam had put his jacket on her too. He countered all her objections at leaving him bare-chested; saying that carrying her close enabled him to share in her body warmth. She assured him that her odd attire would raise no awkward questions, since both parents were working double shifts, and her sister Sumiko was on a sleepover at a friend's house. She could sneak back in and be in bed before anyone knew she'd even gone out.

Arriving at her doorstep, she retrieved her key from its hiding place and bade Sam wait a moment as she rushed inside. She returned almost instantly wearing a bathrobe, "I couldn't let you go home like that," she smiled, as she handed him back his clothes, which he put on gratefully. He hoped he could sneak in without Emiko seeing the Cobra jacket and freaking out, but he had to admit that arriving half-naked would have been likely to give her an even greater conniption fit.

"Don't worry," Keiko told him as they parted, "I promise I won't tell anyone what happened. Stop feeling guilty, you had no more choice than I did. It may have been your body, Kaz, but  _you_  weren't the one who raped me."

Sam gave her a startled look, and Al gave Sam an identical one. What did she know? How  _could_ she know?

"Tad was the one who hurt me, not you," she explained, "he was responsible; he's the only guilty one."

Sam was not so easily comforted, on either score.

As far as Kaz having defiled her staying a secret Sam had no doubt that he had nothing to worry about from Keiko herself. On the other hand, there had been seven serpent witnesses, and one of them was the instigator, Tadayuki Yamashita, his host's nemesis. Sam had little hope of the Cobra's keeping quiet about it. The thought of Emiko learning of his sin and his shame was almost as unbearable as knowing what he'd subjected that innocent child to.

In addition, he couldn't help feeling that if he'd been better informed and more prepared, he could probably have kept Keiko and her boyfriend out of the warehouse altogether and spared both her the torment, and Manchu the beating. Not to mention sparing himself the guilt, embarrassment, and the pain.

It was with this accusation that Sam began his conversation with Al as they covered the remaining distance back to Kaz's house.

"I applaud your keeping in touch with Ruthie," Sam told him, "I really do. But did it  _have_  to be at the cost of keeping me in the dark about something this important?"

"Sorry, buddy," Al offered sincerely, "I ran the numbers, and I was counting on you changing history in those intervening days. I  _really_ believed the Leap would take a turn, and you'd never have to know what might have happened."

What Al didn't tell Sam, would  **never** tell Sam, was that every scenario he'd run where he'd given Sam sufficient prior warning had ended with  _all_  the players – Keiko, Manchu, Yasuo and Kaz/Sam - meeting a variety of horrific, agonizing and violent deaths.

"I appreciate you trying to spare my feelings, Al, but it kinda backfired big time, didn't it?" Sam's tone was justifiably harsh. "We  _should_ have been able to protect Keiko from that ordeal, Al. Not to mention it wasn't exactly my idea of a great night out either."

"I know, Sam," Al made no effort to joke, or to change the subject, or to imply to his friend that there may be some sort of silver lining to the cloud. He was feeling wretched that he had let things get away from him, and had not pre-empted events as he'd intended, in good enough time to prevent the alternate dire consequences.

"It's no excuse, Sam, I know, but Ruthie got some infection or other. She was running a fever and the Docs thought she might not make it. I guess I stayed longer than I planned, and then on the way back…" Al pulled himself up short. He couldn't tell Sam about the developments with Sammi-Jo without reminding the Leaper of things best left forgotten.

Luckily for Al, Sam was used to this sort of scenario, and was in no mood to demand details.

"You know what, Al? Don't even bother." He made a dismissive gesture. "Doesn't matter if it's the truth or one of your elaborate excuses. Bottom line is I didn't get a chance to keep them out, and so we were put in that no-win situation, and Keiko and I have both got to live with the consequences. If I'm real lucky, I'll get to forget when I leap.  **Keiko**  doesn't have that luxury." Sam picked up his pace, so that Al had to trot across the Imaging Chamber floor to keep up.

"What can I say, Sam?" Al queried softly. He well understood Sam's anger and resentment, and the traumatic effects upon the Leaper of having to do something so odious and utterly unnatural.

Yet though it had been worst for Keiko of course, and then for Sam, Al had not escaped his share of the anguish either. It had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, bullying Sam into an action that, though performed for the best of motives, was still abhorrent in every way. He didn't need Sam to point out that the blame for the way things had happened rested firmly on his shoulders. He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him. He could feel the guilt of it eating him up inside. He could feel the urge to go home and hit the bottle, to blot out all the overwhelming emotions, but he knew he wouldn't cave in to that counterfeit consolation.

"Nothing, Al," Sam told him coldly. "There's nothing  _to_  say. I know you  _meant_ well, but right now that doesn't help at all. I think I just need to be alone for a while."

"Sure. Take it easy, kid," Al's gravel voiced farewell went unacknowledged as Sam trudged on.

 

**Kaz's house**

It was a very dejected Sam that crept into the house that night, to be confronted by an initially angry, then concerned grandmother. He'd just managed to stash the jacket beneath a thick winter coat on the hallstand when she emerged from the kitchen, berating him loudly in Japanese for being so late home, and causing an old woman to worry that he'd been murdered in the street.

Sam took a couple of steps toward her, trying to placate her, and reassure her with the lie that he was fine.

She stopped mid-sentence and stared at him as he approached, her head on one side, anxiety in her eyes. "Why you walk funny?" Emiko interrogated.

Sam had not realized his lingering discomfort was so obvious. He flushed and cast his eyes downward, "It's nothing, sobo," he assured her, "I uh, I just hurt a muscle, erm exercising." The excuse made him cringe, but trying to explain how he came to be feeling the latent effects of congestive prostatitis was simply not an option.

"Hot bath and bed." Emiko ordered, shooing him up the stairs. Sam went without argument. He hadn't been offered supper, but since he had no appetite he was glad not to have to find a pretext to decline without raising either alarm or suspicion in the old lady.

Sam turned the faucet to full power, watching the steam rise as the bath quickly filled with hot water. When it was good and deep, he lowered himself in, flinching instinctively at the scalding heat, which went some little way to mask the searing pains that still cramped his loins at intervals. His own waters had burned him savagely when he'd relieved himself on entering the bathroom, as he'd anticipated they would. Sam was well aware that his body was paying in some small measure for his decision to curtail his assault, but he knew too that he would not, could not, have done otherwise. Aside from prolonging Keiko's agony, which would have been a totally unacceptable price for his own wellbeing, there was no way he would have exposed her to the added risk and certain humiliation of pregnancy.

The physician in Sam knew he needed to flush out his system lest the backlog caused a nasty urinary tract infection, but his conscience cried out to him that he had no right to seek to alleviate his own discomfort when he'd caused such suffering, both physical and emotional, to another.

Though his flesh had instantly turned a bright shade of lobster red, Sam did not cool the water. Instead, he lathered the washcloth with copious amounts of soap, and scrubbed for all he was worth, which at that precise moment he felt to be very little indeed. He may have lashed out at Al, and suggested that the responsibility for what had transpired should be shifted in that direction, but deep down, he knew that he alone was culpable.

Despite the broiling heat of the water, Sam found he was trembling. Taking a deep breath and pinching his nose, he let his head sink beneath the water, trying to drown out the thoughts that clamored in his brain. For a few moments, he considered the relative merits of staying down there, of ending his miserable existence. He deserved no better fate. His self-loathing and his shame taunted him with thoughts of atonement, and fears of – not retribution, he'd have taken any punishment meted out to him, and gladly – no, what he feared was the heartbreak, the bitter disappointment and mortification on the faces of Emiko, and his own mother, Thelma Beckett. Only a tiny voice somewhere deep in the recesses of his subconscious led him to rise and draw breath again. A voice that accused him of selfishness, pointed out that he had no right to take Kazuo's life, and reminded him Yasuo would die the next day without his intervention.

Hot soapy water ran in rivulets from his hair, down his face, stinging eyes already stung by salty tears. "God forgive me," he pleaded softly, his voice catching in his throat, "Mom, please, can you ever forgive me?" He resumed his scrubbing, though he knew in his heart he could never feel clean. His soul was tarnished, and no amount of scouring could ever make it shine again.

 

**Keiko's house**

Keiko lowered herself into a warm bath. Her body was sore inside and out, more than she wanted to admit, and her heart was heavy. She had been robbed of her childhood, her innocence. She had been violated and abused. Yet she meant what she had told the boy Kazuo, she didn't blame him at all. In her mind, he was not the one she hated and despised for her treatment. It had been Tad who was responsible, in every way, for her suffering. She put her washcloth under the cold tap, and then applied it gingerly to her swollen eye. That was something she was going to have to find a plausible explanation for, especially since she had been under strict instructions not to leave the house. Keiko decided that next time she would heed her parent's rules; she had learned her lesson the hard way. The bruises on her arm she was pretty sure she could hide, at least until their cause was less obvious.

A lone tear escaped her eye. She knew now how hard it was going to be - such a secret to have to live with. Already a huge part of her wanted to tell the police, her sister, her mother, what had been done to her. To have them hold her and comfort her. When she had made her promise, she hadn't really thought about how she would manage to keep it. Yet keep it she would. Nothing would be gained by ruining Kaz's life. It would not give her back her virginity, or take away her hurt. He didn't deserve to be punished anyway, when all he had done had been to save her from what could have been,  _would_  have been so very much worse.

Keiko shuddered, despite the warmth of the water. She didn't want to imagine how more horribly things could have turned out. Though when she did stop to think about it she was reminded that she had something to be grateful for. Whenever she thought of this dreadful day, and she hoped that would not be often, she determined that she would consider the positive side, of what a lucky escape she'd had, and not dwell on the down side. She didn't see it as being brave, as Kaz had put it. She saw it as a way to cope, a refusal to live as a victim, as survival. Which in itself was a very brave and mature attitude of course, but that didn't occur to her.

 

**QLHQ**

Al had told Sammi-Jo that she could take as long as she wanted, but she needed to get back to work. Having too much time on her hands, too much time to think, was not doing her any favors. Besides, she had heard what happened to David Beckett, and although Ziggy was now positively contrite, he still had to work one handed. Sammi-Jo felt it would be selfish to have him pull double shifts just because she couldn't stop herself from dissolving into tears over the slightest silly little thing.

"Sammi-Jo, I'm…" David greeted her as she reported for duty.

"Don't you  **dare**  say it!" she interrupted him, so vehemently that he found himself taking a step backwards.

"Whoa! I was only gonna say I'm pleased to see you," David replied, holding up his good hand in a gesture of surrender. "I'm concerned over these readings."

Sammi-Jo had the grace to blush. "Sorry, David, I know people mean well, but…"

"I know what you mean," countered David, "when I first started here, and people found out my wife had just left me, it was all most of them talked to me about. There's definitely such a thing as too much sympathy."

"Uh, yeah, well I think I may have been a bit guilty there, sorry." Sammi-Jo dipped her head. She had by no means been the worst, but they shared an embarrassed snigger over it now.

"No worries," David assured her.

"Now, what's wrong with the readings?" Sammi-Jo changed the subject, and indicated that it was time for both of them to set their minds to work.

David stepped to one side to enable Dr Fuller to examine the information before him. For a few moments, Sammi-Jo studied Sam's vital signs in silence. A frown creased her features, and she hastily reviewed the logs for the last couple of hours.

"What on earth has been going on?" she asked, alarmed professionally that the Leaper was showing indications of prolonged stress, and extreme distress. She was shocked to realize that she also felt in no small way personally concerned that her father was suffering in some way. All the evidence pointed to his having experienced both physical discomfort and emotional anguish. Though the fact of their blood bond was new to her, she was accepting the filial role and all its implications both willingly and naturally.

As if in response to her request for information, a dejected Al trudged down the ramp from the Imaging Chamber just as she spoke.

"Al!" Sammi-Jo looked up anxiously, letting her eyes show her frantic need for information she could not be seen to be desperate for. "What's with Dr. Beckett? Is he okay?" Her attempt to keep her voice level and detached could have fooled all but the Observer.

"Long way from it, kiddo," Al sighed wearily without looking up. "This damn Leap has gotta be Sam's worst $$$$ing nightmare. I know it sure the hell is mine."

Without enlightening her further, Al cradled his hand-link in its recharging dock, and shuffled out to find himself a hot strong cup of Java to lose himself in.

David and S-J exchanged looks. They both knew of Al's naval background, and that he wasn't exactly a choir-boy, but generally he was careful to moderate his language, especially when a lady was present.

"What's eating him?" S-J queried almost jovially, but soon wished she hadn't when David took her through the recent events of the Leap. She blanched, and busied herself on some trifling data input to hide the tremble that crept into her hands.

"He  _didn't_. He couldn't. Da- uh Dr. Beckett would  **never**  do something like that!" Sammi-Jo no longer cared if her detachment was called into question. This was just too much. One reason she had been so willing to accept the fact that she was Sam's daughter was because of how much she admired him. Yet now she was being told he was guilty of the most despicable and dishonorable crime on the planet. It contradicted everything she thought she knew about the man, and it disgusted her.

"He didn't have a choice, Dr. Fuller, that's why he's so distraught," David pointed out. He too had been shocked as the information filtered in as to what was going on back in '76, but _he_  could see how Sam's actions had been for the greater good, and tried to explain this to his horrified colleague, but she wouldn't listen.

"There's  _always_  a choice, David, and  **that**  isn't  _ever_  it.  _He's_  distraught? What about that poor  _girl_?" S-J spat the words, and then turned on her heel. "Sorry, can you, er, hold the fort? I, uh, I need some air."

So saying Sammi-Jo made a dash for the door, and thence to the rest room, which she barely reached in time to vent her last meal down the porcelain bowl.

 

oOo

When she had finally finished, Sammi-Jo washed her face and hands, and then continued to splash water on her tear-stained cheeks.

She looked into the mirror.

It was undeniable. Now she looked harder, with full knowledge of the facts, she could see traces of his likeness in her features. Sam was indeed her father. She thought she had come to terms with it, she thought she was pleased, no – thrilled at the idea of being the daughter of the great Dr Samuel Beckett. She was proud that - however unwittingly - she had been named for him. She had determined to redouble her efforts to get her father home and get to know him personally. Now, she felt nothing but loathing and condemnation. The man whom once she had revered, she now reviled. He'd used that poor girl just as he'd used her mother – to satisfy his lust. He was just a typical man after all, who thought with his loins first and his brains a poor second.

As her thoughts ran away with her along this route of outrage, she was distracted by the sound of the restroom door opening. She ducked into the nearest stall, not wanting to engage in idle gossip, or have someone assume her current distress was a fresh outpouring of grief for her murdered parents and smother her with sympathy. She just couldn't handle it right now, couldn't face anyone.

Waiting for the other woman to leave, Sammi-Jo kept as still and quiet as possible, stifling her lingering sniffles. She was so quiet, she could hear the sound of someone softly sobbing and muttering to herself. It didn't take long for Dr Fuller to work out it was Donna Elysee, otherwise known as Mrs. Beckett. Sammi-Jo didn't need her meteoric IQ to realize that Donna had also just discovered what Sam had done, and was as hurt and upset by it as she herself was, and with every good reason.

It was also evident that Donna was going to be there a while. This was not the sort of thing you shrugged off with a couple of Kleenex, like a sad soppy movie plot. Taking a deep breath, Sammi-Jo opened up the door to the cubicle, and went out to console her new stepmother.

Donna saw the stall behind her open, and tried to hide her tears from the woman emerging. Even more so when she realized it was Sammi-Jo. Straightening her shoulders, she forced a smile, and rifled through her purse as if she were just there to repair her makeup. She could see S-J had been crying, and automatically assumed the loss of her mother was the cause.

"If we keep bumping into each other like this, people will think we're plotting something." Donna tried to appear lighthearted.

"Whereas  _we're_  not the ones up to no good, are we?" Sammi-Jo let Donna know she knew, gently putting a comforting hand around the older woman's shoulders.

"Oh, Sammi-Jo! How  **could**  he?" Donna dissolved into tears, and buried her head in her hands.

 

oOo

They had quickly adjourned to Sammi-Jo's quarters, deciding the rest room was far too public to discuss something of this magnitude. Donna's quarters were closer, but too many things in there reminded her of her husband, and she wasn't at all comfortable with that right now. Sammi-Jo offered her refuge for the night, and Donna was eager to accept.

For a long time, they talked and they cried. They kept trying to deny the reality of what Sam had done, to argue that Ziggy must have made a mistake, and it hadn't really happened the way the records showed, it was simply inconceivable. Yet they kept coming back to the realization that - shocking as it was - Sam was guilty as sin. Then their denial turned to anger, and outrage, and revulsion, and feelings of betrayal. Each woman understood how devastating the revelation was for the other, since they both, in their own way, loved the man. Yes, Sammi-Jo admitted, she had very quickly come to believe that she had a real love for her biological father. A love he had tainted and besmirched.

Eventually, in an effort to come to terms with it herself, and to be able to live with the knowledge, Donna began trying to find excuses for Sam, to take on board the assertion she had been given that he really had no choice.

"He  _must_  have believed he was doing the right thing…" she postulated.

" **NO**!" Sammi-Jo jumped to her feet and began pacing. Her face was flushed with anger, and her fingers clenched. "Wrong. Wrong, oh so very  **wrong.**  He took something from that girl she can never get back. Ruined. He forced her to… to…" She had reached the edge of her room, and suddenly lashed out, punching the wall so hard that Donna jumped in her seat, and Sammi-Jo's knuckles bled, "…forced me to…" she mumbled, as she sank to the floor and hugged her knees, starting to rock.

" _What_  did you say?" Donna rose uncertainly to her feet, and took a hesitant step toward the younger woman. Sammi-Jo shrank back away as she approached, a startled, panicked look on her face. She was clearly no longer in the here and now, but rather re-living an old nightmare.

"Ziggy," Donna whispered softly, knowing the computer would hear, "Please ask Dr Beeks to come to Dr Fuller's quarters immediately. I think I'm going to need her help"

Little by little, Dr Beeks eventually managed to calm Sammi-Jo enough to get her up from the floor and back onto her couch. Donna made them all a pot of strong black coffee, but not much of it got drunk. Gradually, the two women learned the dreadful secret Sammi-Jo had kept to herself since her first semester at college.

"Nine frat boys went trophy hunting," she finally told them, "turned out… I was the trophy!"

Apparently they had been a group of pledges, and having completed a week of various hazing challenges set by the brotherhood they sought to join, they were given one final task of raiding the girls' dorms on Friday night and bringing back something to prove they had been inside. Most had grabbed a bra, or pair of lacy panties from the communal bathroom where they had been hung to dry. One had taken a picture of a buxom freshman in a frilly nightdress. A group of three, however, were determined to outdo the rest, and managed to corner an unsuspecting Sammi-Jo in a quiet part of the sorority house where no-one heard her muffled scream as she was grabbed. They hadn't realized what the consequences of their decision to try to impress would be. The President of the Chapter declared that the ritual sacrifice of Sammi-Jo's virginity would be a fitting reward for those initiates who had satisfactorily fulfilled their pledges. Once the initiation ceremony was complete, the nine new members were locked in an attic room with her for the night.

"They took t-turns…" Sammi-Jo's voice was hoarse, her throat tight with emotion and remembered fear, "sometimes, they sh-shared turns…They made me…" By this time, she was lying curled up on her couch, her head in Donna's lap. Donna was stroking her hair. "… I thought I'd choke…"

"You don't  _have_  to tell us any more," Verbena had heard more than enough. It sickened her to her stomach to think what S-J had been subjected to. She would listen if Sammi-Jo wanted to let it out, and she had obviously been bottling it up for years, but she made it clear that S-J was in control of how much she wanted to reveal and when.

"I've never told  _anyone_  before," Sammi-Jo confirmed, "Not my mother, nobody. They said…said…" a wailing sob interrupted her, "…they'd kill me if I t-t-told…"

"Poor kid," Donna wrapped her arms protectively around the young woman, and gently rocked along with her. "This is one instance when an eidetic memory must be a curse," she commented to the psychiatrist, who nodded. Sammi-Jo was obviously able to remember graphically every detestable detail of her all-night ordeal.

The more they learned of the appallingly degrading things Sammi-Jo had been forced to do - and have done to her - repeatedly during that interminably long night, the better they appreciated her reaction to what she had learned about Sam. She had been deeply traumatized by what she had suffered, but had buried it deep and blotted it out of her conscious mind, much as she had initially with the details she had witnessed of Leta Aider's gory suicide. Only now, Sam's contemptible conduct regarding Keiko had made it all surface again. All this on top of losing her parents, no wonder she was utterly devastated.

"Ziggy," Dr Beeks commanded the computer, "clear my schedule for the rest of the week."


	12. Eleven

 

**San Francisco**

**Sunday 29th Feb 1976**

The phrase 'No rest for the Wicked' might have been a mantra for Sam through the long night. If his conscience had pricked him for stabbing Mr. Peng, it was roasting him on a spit now for his crime against Keiko.

Mid morning found all his chores done and more, since he had risen early. Emiko had been given breakfast in bed - much to her surprise and delight - the trash was out, and every cupboard had been tidied and scrubbed. Though not yet spring, the house was being cleaned from top to bottom. It was as if Sam were afraid that if he let up for even a minute, his idle hands would be found more devilish work.

"Why you do all my work?" Emiko asked him suspiciously, "Cleaning women's work. You try to say you not need Emiko any more?" She looked at him forlornly.

"Not at all, sobo." Sam hastily reassured her. "You've done so much for me, it's time I took the load off you a bit more, that's all. You're not getting any younger."

She cuffed him for his lack of respect, but then responded sadly, "Yes, your sobo won't be around forever."

Sam suddenly felt an even bigger heel for upsetting the old girl. That had been the last thing he'd intended. "I hope you'll be looking after me for a long time yet, sobo, but that doesn't mean I can't start looking after you too."

"Aww, such a  **good**  boy," Emiko chubbied his cheek for that, making him blush at the gesture, and cringe at her words, "My Kaz is  **such** a good boy." She gave his cheek a friendly little pat.

' **Kaz**  may be a good boy,' thought Sam despondently, 'but Sam Beckett leaves a helluva lot to be desired.'

Sam gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and made her sit down and rest while he continued his purge on the unsuspecting house.

Sam was grateful that Kazuo's parents had been thoroughly westernized, and thus the house had quite a lot of furniture to attend to. Had it been decorated to Emiko's traditional, minimalist taste, he'd have had no more to do than beat clean the tatami mats and wash over the futons. Since she insisted on the convention of not wearing shoes of any kind inside the house, the hardwood floor had not needed much scrubbing, but he was on his hands and knees waxing it when there was a knock at the door.

Emiko went to answer it, and admitted Yasuo, who had his school rucksack on his back.

"You help young friend with homework? Yes?" It was less of a question, more an instruction. "I finish that."

"Certainly, sobo." Sam led Yas into his room so that they could 'study'. He guessed that Yas probably had something else in mind, but whatever it was, he stood a better chance of keeping the youngster alive if he could keep him close.

Once inside Kaz's bedroom, they put a couple of books on his desk for effect, and shut the door.

"Thanks for your help last night." Sam told the boy sincerely, "Are you okay?"

"Couple of bruises, winded for a bit, but otherwise I'm fine. That boy took the worst of the fall. I was glad to help. Are you alright? When I heard you scream, I thought for a minute you were going to land in my lap too."

"So did I for a while." Sam hadn't really thought about his crushed fingers after it happened. There had been so much else going on. His hand had ached during his morning cleaning session, but he had embraced the pain, accepting it as part of his penance. He glanced at his hand now and noticed that the fingers were bruised and swollen, and when he tried to make a fist, it hurt. He still had mobility of the joints, though, so it didn't look like anything was broken. "No serious physical damage," Sam declared, "but I'm far from all right."

Sam was optimistic that Yasuo was finally realizing the dangerous nature of the gang, and he was determined to hammer the point home. A silence hung between them for a while; during which each wondered what he should say first.

"What was it like, Kaz?" asked Yas at last, overwhelmed with gruesome curiosity, a look of awe on his face. "I've never even seen a girl _naked_  before, well, apart from my sister and she's just a toddler so it doesn't count." He was babbling, so that Sam couldn't get a word in. "I mean, it can't have been so bad, you had to have been keen on her, she  _was_  a real looker wasn't she!"

"Yas!" Sam stood up, his face livid, his voice incredulous. He was about to excoriate the young man in no uncertain terms, but a slight tapping on his bedroom door made him pause, his mouth agape. Without waiting for permission, Emiko opened the door and came in, with a tray of milk and cookies. The boys hastily scrambled to look busy perusing a text book.

"You work better when you fed," she declared, with a smile.

" _Domo arigato gozaimasu,"_ they replied in chorus, taking the proffered goodies.

Emiko withdrew, but didn't shut the door behind her. Sam was terrified she would overhear something that would surely give her an instant heart attack, but felt that making a point of closing the door again might arouse her suspicions and have her eavesdropping at the keyhole. He was used to clandestine conversations with Al; he would just have to watch what he said and how loudly he said it.

He indicated to Yasuo that they should both sit on the bed, putting a book there so that they could snatch it up should she return. Once they were close enough to speak softly, Sam favored Yas with a cold stare.

"Don't you  _dare_  try to glamorize what happened, Yas," Sam warned him, a low growl to his voice. "It was rape, nothing else, and it was indefensible.  _And_  it is likely to have appalling consequences for both Keiko and myself. What do you think it's gonna do to sobo when she finds out how I've dishonored the family name?"

Yas jumped visibly at the vehemence of Sam's rebuke. He paled a little, but at Sam's last comment, he heaved a sigh of relief.

"I don't think you need worry about her finding out, Kaz," Yasuo comforted his friend.

Sam opened his mouth to explain how it was inevitable, how Tad would probably delight in watching Emiko's face as he detailed her grandson's despicable crime.

Yas forestalled him. "The gang won't say a word, Kaz. When we left HQ, Fujiyama ran into us outside. He was on his way back from the hospital. Oh, Tammy gets out tomorrow by the way."

Sam allowed himself a small smile in light of that information. Saving Tammy had been his one redeeming act on this Leap.

"Tad was bragging about what he'd made you do," Yasuo went on. "He was being really crude about…"

"Spare me the details," begged Sam, who could only too well imagine what Tad would have to say about his perfidious performance.

"Yeah, right, well anyway, King Cobra was furious with him. He demoted Tad on the spot, told him he'd have a week to prove himself worthy to be restored to favor. I've  _never_  seen Tad look scared before, but when Mat laid into him for dishonoring the Cobras, I swear I thought Tad was gonna pee his pants." Yas chuckled at the thought. While Sam had little sympathy for Tad's discomfort, he couldn't help thinking it would be one more thing the ex-Crown Prince would hold against Kazuo. As if he needed anything else!

"Anyway," Yasuo reassured him, "the point is, Mat made us  **all** swear never to say a word more about it to anyone, not even among ourselves. I'm only telling you now cos the King commanded me to let you know that and that he doesn't blame you, that's why I came over. Mat told Tad if he heard him say  _one_  thing to you, or anyone, about what went on in his office, he'd not only strip Tad  _permanently_ of his rank, not even just expel him from the gang, he'd personally see to it that Tad paid with his life! You should have seen Tad grovel to him! It was pathetic."

Sam felt some small part of his burden lift from his heart at the news that Kazuo and Emiko would not suffer for his transgression.

"Thanks for letting me know, Yas," Sam gave him a crooked half smile. "I've been so worried about sobo…"

"I bet," countered Yas, "I mean, it's not like you were stealing a bag of chips for a dare."

Sam fidgeted, his head bowed. He didn't need reminding of the depths to which he'd sunk.

"I could tell you were against doing that to that poor girl," Yas went on, "I wondered why you went through with it - I didn't think you would. It was so, uh well, so dishonorable. But then I remembered what you said about that old man in the store. About what Tad would have done if you hadn't…"

Sam just nodded.

"This was the same wasn't it?" Yas asked earnestly. "You only did it cos you were afraid what Tad would have done to her if you hadn't."

"And the others," Sam confirmed, "I couldn't let…"

He stopped himself. He was trying to justify the unjustifiable.

Yasuo had already made the connection for himself though.

"They  _were_  all pretty revved up. You reckon Tad would actually have let them… I mean that they would  _all_ …?"

Again, Sam merely nodded, swallowing convulsively.

"Oh boy!" breathed Yasuo, earning him a startled look from the Leaper.

"You really  _were_  doing the noble thing again, weren't you?"

Sam shook his head vehemently. "There wasn't a shred of honor in what I did to poor Keiko."

"You took her home after though, didn't you?" Yas was determined to believe well of his friend.

Sam frowned, puzzled.

"I hung around when the gang broke up after Mat's lecture. I saw you carry her out," Yas explained. "I was gonna talk to you then, but it looked like you had your hands full. Her boyfriend came back looking for her too, but I told him you'd got her home safe. I didn't tell him what had happened of course."

"Is he okay?" Sam was compelled to ask. "He looked like he was limping a lot after that fall."

"He was. He said he'd twisted his ankle badly, and pulled a muscle. The Cobras beat him up pretty thoroughly; he had cuts and bruises all over, and I reckon he was lucky not to have any broken bones."

"Very lucky," confirmed Sam. "Yas, surely you can't  _still_  tell me you think it's wonderful to be a member of a gang that treats people like Tad and the others treated Manchu and Keiko, and Mr. Peng. They aren't cool. Their behavior is despicable, and they are forcing others to behave despicably too. How long before you have to take  _your_  turn, Yas?" Sam forced eye contact and stared the young man down.

Yasuo wriggled uncomfortably, and shook his head. "I don't want to be like them," he confessed in a barely audible voice, "I don't  _ever_ want to do those things. I just wanted to feel like I belonged."

"So why didn't you just join the chess club, sheesh!" Sam gave him a playful nudge, "Seriously, Yas, we can find people to share interests with, to spend time with, without all this danger and dishonor, can't we? How about it? What say you and I quit the Cobras and find a group that thinks the same way we do to hang out with?"

Yas didn't answer straight away. He looked down at his hands in his lap, and he looked within himself. Then after a time, he nodded.

"Yeah, Kaz, I want out."

Sam sighed with relief.

Of course, Al had told him that the only way out was to Jump Out, and that Yas was unlikely to survive such a severe beating. Sam didn't let it worry him – he had a plan that should get Yas out unscathed.

 

**QLHQ**

Bena helped Donna to make herself up a bed on Sammi-Jo's couch. Donna still didn't want to go back to her own quarters, and they thought it best that someone be on hand for S-J should she wake. She was likely to sleep a while yet, for in the end she'd gotten so hysterical during the reliving of her terrible tale that they'd had to send for Dr Koulianos to administer a sedative. Bena had cause now to be even more grateful that Cassie had been on hand to accept the appointment. A male doctor in these circumstances would have been more hindrance than help.

The three women decided that as far as was practicable, S-J's interactions with the masculine population of the complex should be kept to a minimum for a while. It would be easier to respect her right to confidentiality if she didn't suddenly freak out because some guy had innocently touched her. Ironically, her recent loss afforded them the perfect cover for Cassie signing her off work. Most personnel would not question S-J's withdrawal and tearfulness, attributing it to the well-reported fact of her bereavement.

They had spent some time figuring out with Ziggy how they could juggle their work shifts to ensure that one or other of them could sit with S-J as often as possible. The less she was left alone, the better.

 

**In the corridor...**

It was very late. Al had just left Tina's quarters, sighing with exasperation. She was still furious with him for going back to see Ruthie, despite his assurances that he was in no way looking to get back with his ex-wife, and that she – Tina - was the one he loved. Considering some of the things Tina had yelled at him, he was starting to think that maybe Ruthie might be the better option after all, especially after her startling revelation that she had never stopped loving him.

Her words kept playing in his mind in the quiet moments between crises. He really didn't know how to take them. He couldn't be sure she'd meant them, nor that she'd even remember them, and he sure as hell couldn't ever broach the subject with her. Yet still it gave him pause. Having twice recently been faced with the very real possibility of her not being around anymore, Al was forced to admit to himself that the thought of losing her forever hurt more than he could have imagined.

Did that mean that on some level he still loved Ruthie? As a friend – certainly; they had shared enough good times in the past that he had a deep  _fondness_  for her. But love? That was something else altogether.

Al trudged along the corridor, lost in thoughts that went round in circles, raised innumerable questions and gave him no answers. There were practical considerations too. A future with Ruthie would be complicated, both by his security intensive/irregular-hours occupation and by her need for constant attention due to her disabilities. It would never work.

Al stopped in his tracks.

That he was even  _considering_  the practicalities meant that somewhere in the recesses of his subconscious he was prepared to admit to the  _possibility_  that there was still enough love there to try again. 'Whoa, lover boy,' he thought, 'that way lies madness, surely?'

He still did not receive his answer.

What he did hear was the sound of screaming from the room he was passing.

He was still in the women's quarters' section, and it was most certainly a woman's scream he'd heard. She sounded terrified, and she sounded as if she was pleading for her life.

At the door in a single stride, Al was alarmed to discover the room belonged to none other than Sammi-Jo Fuller. He knocked loudly and urgently.

"Are you okay in there Sammi-Jo?" he called out. He might have thought she was having nightmares about the loss of her mother, but something didn't sound quite right. "Is someone in there with you?"

Mindful of what had happened all too recently with Rusty Kincaid, Al was not about to take any chances with her life. He took a step back and a deep breath simultaneously, preparing to shoulder open the door.

What followed could have been a scene straight out of one of the infamous British bedroom farces, had it not been for the seriousness of the circumstances behind it.

As Al rushed the door full pelt, Donna yanked it open, telling him in a harsh whisper to come in and be quiet, as they didn't want everyone down the corridor hearing what was wrong.

Al stumbled through the unexpectedly gaping doorway, knocking Donna flat on her back on the ground and landing right on top of her in an undignified heap, just as Sammi-Jo appeared silhouetted in her bedroom doorframe, hugging herself tightly into a thick quilted duvet. She took one look at the struggling couple entwined on the floor – Donna trying to push Al from atop her, he trying to find some leverage to help him get up without causing either of them further injury – and began to tremble like the green jello in Jurassic Park.

"No, please, n-not a-gain!" she whimpered, retreating into her room and slamming the door.

"Oh great!" sighed Donna, " _Just_ what we need!"

"What the hell…?" a confused Al looked from the bedroom door to the woman still beneath him on the carpet.

"Let me up and I'll explain," Donna promised, giving him a shove in the ribs for encouragement.

Fortunately, neither Al nor Donna were any the worse for their tumble. They had soon picked themselves up, dusted themselves off and adjourned to the comfort of the couch, where Donna quickly outlined the situation with Sammi-Jo, and how it had exploded in light of Sam's inexcusable actions on the Leap. Donna could not help but shed a few tears as she brought the Admiral up to date on the developments. A part of her felt that she had no right to be discussing Sammi-Jo's shocking secret with anyone not already in the know, much less with the man who not only had a reputation as a womanizer, but who had also had a hand in how events in San Francisco had unfolded. On the other hand, as Director of the Project, and someone who was close as family to S-J, it was unlikely that they could have kept him in the dark about something so momentous for long. Better he find out now, before he inadvertently made the situation worse somewhere far more public than this.

Al listened in stunned silence, his heart aching for the young woman who had been so cruelly used. He wanted to rush in and console her, wrap her in a loving hug and make all the pain and fear go away, but he knew it was not the right thing to do in her current state. He felt helpless, and frustrated, and he'd have liked to find the punks and deal out a little street justice. Privately, he determined to do a little digging to that end. If he ever caught up with them, he could promise them a "hazing" they wouldn't soon forget!

Having apprised him of the situation as swiftly as possible, Donna turned her attention back to Sammi-Jo.

"You'd best wait out here, Al," Donna advised, confirming his own assessment, "I'm not sure how she'll react to you. Cassie says that having bottled it up for so long, now she's let the feelings out, they've overwhelmed her. She's in shock. We need to handle her with kid gloves, or she might not come back from it."

Al nodded, and looked at Donna sadly as she headed for the bedroom door. Then he put his head back and closed his eyes for a moment, letting his weary body sink into the soft fabric of the couch. He sighed. 'Don't start thinking "What's next?" Al old buddy,' he thought to himself, 'cos you don't wanna know if things can get worse than this!'

Donna tapped lightly on the bedroom door, and tried to open it. She soon realized that Sammi-Jo must have sunk to the floor with her back to it, since it barely moved before meeting resistance. Donna sat down on her own side, and patiently whispered reassurances to S-J, interspersed with pleas to let her in.

Finally, the door swung open and Donna went inside, to find S-J scuttling back to her bed. She crawled in and pulled the covers up over herself like a cocoon, her back to Donna, completely withdrawn. No matter what Donna said to her, or how she soothed the young woman with comforting strokes, Sammi-Jo just lay there, looking blankly ahead, unresponsive in any way. Depression hung in the atmosphere like a rain cloud.

After a while, Donna crept back out, but made sure she wedged the door ajar so that S-J could not trap herself inside again. Finding Al had nodded off on her makeshift bed, Donna curled up in an armchair, and tried not to dwell on all the reprehensible revelations that had recently come her way.

All three had slept fitfully for a while.

Donna awoke first, with a crick in her neck from the awkward position in which she'd dozed. She softly padded through to the kitchen area and put on a pot of coffee, stretching out the kinks in her back. While the coffee percolated, she freshened up in the bathroom and then went to check on Sammi-Jo. At first she thought the girl was still sleeping, but then she saw her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy from crying, were open, though unfocussed. Once more, Donna spoke to her, but may as well have been addressing a store window mannequin.

Sammi-Jo curled up tighter into her covers and tried to make the world go away. She vaguely heard Donna suggest she should shower and dress, and then they'd share the breakfast Donna was going to make. It meant nothing. What was the point in getting up? In eating? In doing anything? She felt empty inside, her sense of loss overpowering.

All was loss.

First Will; before she was even born, she'd meant nothing to him, but then that made sense now.

Then Candace, her baby sister, snatched from her by a reckless driver, even as her maidenhood had been snatched from her by reckless frat boys.

And Philip and Abigail, the parents who'd raised her, whom she'd been loved by and had loved equally as parents despite knowing she was not 'theirs' as the triplets were theirs.

Now she had lost Sam too, when she had only just found him, for she rejected him utterly for his crime. She would  _never_  acknowledge him as her father. She wanted nothing to do with him, and far from wanting to perfect retrieval and get him home, she now wished he would rot for eternity in the dim and distant past of some other miserable life where he would suffer in anonymity.

Despite having two loving half-brothers, and a newfound step-mom, Sammi-Jo was feeling very, very alone.

The smell of fresh brewed coffee caused Al to surface. For a minute he couldn't remember where he was and what he was doing there, and he looked around, realizing that he was neither in his own quarters, nor in Tina's. Had he struck lucky with some delectable female? If he had, how come he was now stiff and aching from napping alone on a couch? Surely he hadn't lost his touch?

Suddenly, he remembered whose quarters these were, and why he was there, and blushed at his totally inappropriate thoughts.

Looking at his watch, he realized how much time had passed. Hastily getting up and brushing out the creases in his suit, he decided he needed to pop back to his rooms for a quick shower and a change, and then he should check in with Sam.

"Ziggy?" he queried.

"Dr Beckett is not in any immediate danger Admiral," the parallel hybrid computer anticipated his query. "I believe you have time for breakfast."

"Thanks," acknowledged Al, to both the computer and Dr. Elysee simultaneously, as she handed him a steaming cup of coffee. "How is she this morning?" Al nodded in the direction of the bedroom.

"I think it's more a case of 'where is she' – as in miles away. See for yourself," Donna replied.

Sipping his coffee, Al followed her over to the doorway. Not wanting to intrude or scare the young woman, he peeked in cautiously. Sure enough, Sammi-Jo was totally oblivious to his presence. She lay still in her bed, covers all but burying her, her eyes fixed who knew where, her mind on who knew what.

Withdrawing tactfully, Al took another gulp at his coffee, and then handed the cup back to Donna. "Stay with her," he commanded, "and get Doc Koulianos to look in on her. I'm really worried about her, Donna. Poor kid." He shook his head sadly, "Too much for anyone to have to deal with."

Donna nodded in agreement, allowing herself a small sigh.

"How're  _you_  holding up?" Al asked her, putting a hand lightly on her arm, "I know all this has gotta be tough on you too."

Donna merely shrugged. She wasn't ready to discuss it, especially not with Al.

"You  _really_  mustn't think badly of Sam," Al told her, "He had no choice, Donna. They'd have  **killed**  him and then…."

Donna put her hand up to stop him, "I don't want to hear it, Al." The gesture and the tone were so like those Sam himself had used, that it was like a knife twisting in Al's heart. "I'd almost, uh, I'd rather, that is…better he'd died honorably than done something so ignominious…" Donna couldn't say anymore. She turned away from Al, and retreated to the kitchen, silently declaring the conversation over.

Sighing wearily, Al let himself out, to find he almost bumped into someone.

"Oh excuse me," he offered, automatically, without looking up, preparing to move around the other person and be on his way. What he wasn't prepared for was the reaction he got.

"AL?" An astonished Tina shrieked. She'd gotten up early to have a quick jog through the corridors before feeding her pet crocodile, as she often did, especially when things were fraught in her relationship with the Admiral. She was surprised to find him in this area so early in the morning, when he hadn't spent the night with her.

Instantly suspicious, she looked up to see which hussy's boudoir had provided a bed for her erstwhile boyfriend last night. When she realized where they were, she swiftly slapped him hard across the face, catching him totally off guard.

"Ow!" Al rubbed his cheek. "What was  _that_  for?" he asked innocently.

"You  _slept_ with  _Sammi-Jo_?" she intoned shrilly, more of an incredulous accusation than a question, "How depraved can you get? I hate you, Albert Calavicci, you're disgusting."

"No, Tina, hon, you don't understand…" Al began, wondering how on earth he could explain without betraying Sammi-Jo's dark secret. He knew Tina would have been sympathetic, possibly even helpful in looking after Dr Fuller, but she was not exactly the most discreet person in the complex.

"You know what, Al," she began, and he finished with her, thinking he should have expected a third rebuttal,

\- "Don't even bother, you don't want to hear."

\- "Don't even bother, I don't want to hear."

 

**San Francisco**

Having outlined his plan to Yasuo as to how he was going to get him safely out of the Cobras, Sam let the young man go home for his lunch in the confident knowledge that he'd prevented the boy's imminent demise, and was going to secure him a better future.

He ate his own meal without much appetite, but dutifully, so as not to offend Emiko, who had spent a long time preparing it. Then, having cleared and cleaned the dishes, and there being nothing further he could find to do to help, he retreated to his room, to finish Kaz's homework and leave him some hints and tips on broadening his knowledge base. Kaz was a bright student, and his grades were good, but it looked as if he tended to skimp a bit on the background reading to his studies.

Sam was engrossed in writing a helpful bibliography when Al put in an appearance, looking tired and strained, and with a hint of anger in his eyes that Sam wondered at, since it didn't appear to be directed at him. Nevertheless, Sam apologized to his friend for the harsh words of their last meeting.

"You had every right to be upset, Sam, but let's not dwell on it. I'm surprised to find you still here; you need to get down to the warehouses, cos the shoot-out's going down soon."

Sam made no move to get up, and Al looked at him with concern. Was his friend sinking into the inactivity of depression too? Al couldn't altogether have blamed him, but it was completely unlike Sam to let another suffer, however self-absorbed he had a right to be.

"Come on buddy, Yas needs you…"

Sam shook his head, "It's all sorted, Al. He's agreed to leave the gang, and before you panic, I've worked out a way he won't have to jump out…"

Al allowed himself to feel relieved for a moment, before suspicion and the squealing of the hand-link caused the tension to knot his brow again. He was incubating a doozy of a headache.

"Uh-oh, Sam, no it's  **not**  sorted. What did you tell him you'd do?" A note of alarm crept into Al's voice as he studied the situation Ziggy was relaying to him.

When Sam told him his brilliant plan, Al blanched.

" _What_? Are you crazy, buddy?" he asked incredulously, "Anyway, we'll deal with that later. Yas obviously agrees with me, it's suicidal. He can't in all conscience let you do it, so he's on his way to talk to Mat, to try to get you both out of the Cobras. He's still gonna get shot, Sam. If you don't do something – fast – he's still gonna die."

Sam didn't wait around to argue, he was on his feet and out the door in seconds.

Telling Emiko he needed to talk to Yasuo about something they'd forgotten in the morning, he opted for the roller skates again, and hurried out the door before she could find a reason to delay him.

This time Al told him his destination was another abandoned warehouse situated three or four down from Cobra HQ. Up until now, it had been neutral territory, in worse disrepair than the others; neither side had bothered with it.

Suddenly, the Scorpions had decided that recent defeats at the hands of the Cobras, in particular the one called Kaz, had left them needing to make a show of strength. They had heard about Manchu's beating, and Mr. Peng's stabbing, and determined that the Cobras needed to be taught a lesson. So they decided to declare the warehouse Scorpion territory. Being so close to Cobra HQ, they knew it would push a few buttons, and they were eager for a rumble on their terms, to even a few scores.

Tad had got wind of this, and decided it was the perfect way to ingratiate himself with Mat again. He gathered the Cobras, and they went to confront the Scorpions at the disputed warehouse. Having heard a rumor that one of the Chinese lads had stolen his father's revolver, Tad made sure that most of his gang was armed too.

Sam had hoped to head Yas off before he reached the battleground, but the boy had too much of a head start, so it seemed unlikely.

Tad had made sure word reached Mat of what was going down, anticipating that his Liege Lord would come along in time to see him soundly defeat the enemy and be well impressed.

So it was that as Sam steamed along on his skates, desperately trying to prevent the very tragedy he'd originally been told he was there for; he almost knocked over Fujiyama hurrying along from Tammy's house, where they had been celebrating her homecoming.

Profuse and humble apologies delayed him longer than he'd have liked, but at least he was able to warn the King Cobra that some of the gang members on each side were carrying firearms. Sam didn't like the thought that Tad would go ape at his having been a tattletale, but he'd deal with it as best he could. Better that Mat go into the situation in full possession of the facts, than be killed through ignorance.

Mat was appalled. He had always insisted that Cobras shouldn't carry handguns. He thought that they were cowardly weapons, and Sam wholeheartedly agreed, though personally he disapproved of the flick knives just as much. In fact, he would prefer no weapons of any description be used on his fellow men, regardless of whose side they were on.

The two men and a holographic shadow hurried on, Mat jogging hard to keep up with his skating companion, all with the determination to avert a catastrophe.

They heard the altercation even before they were in sight of the warehouse in question. Angry shouts carried across the stillness of the deserted district, and a couple of shots rang out.

With no more than a glance at his companions, Sam forged ahead, fearful that he would be too late and find Yasuo lying in agony in a pool of blood.

"Find Yas for me, Al," Sam instructed in a strained whisper.

"I'm on it, pal," Al assured him, as he had himself re-centered.

The huge warehouse doors were wide open. It was similar in design to the Cobra HQ. At a glance Sam took in the scene. A group of Scorpions, clearly recognizable by their jackets and red bandanas, were holding the high ground on the gantry by the offices, peering out from behind small filing cabinets and other debris. The Cobras were at ground level, also trying to find cover among the flotsam and jetsam left behind when the previous owners moved on. Tad was hiding behind a huge empty packing crate, trying to get a clear shot at Chen, the Scorpion leader. Two more Cobras had ducked behind a dusty, rusty piece of defunct machinery. Scanning the area, Sam was unable at first to find any sign of Yasuo, or Al. Looking for cover himself to safely explore the area more thoroughly, Sam edged inside, heading for the shadows of the overhang as Yas had done at Cobra HQ. Fortunately, nobody on either side seemed to have noticed him, being too engrossed in trading insults and bullets with those already there.

Suddenly Al waved at him and shouted from behind a pile of junk on the opposite side of the open doors to the warehouse, "He's over here, Sam! Yas is here. He's okay, but pretty scared."

Sam couldn't see any way to get across to his friends – both new and old – without crossing open ground and making himself a target. He may have been able to get to the back of the warehouse, and sneak around 3 sides of the square, but it would take him a long time to do it unnoticed, and there were still several exposed patches. He stood a moment in indecision.

Then Mat caught up, and appeared framed in the opening.

Yas spotted him first, and even as Al yelled a warning, he stood up and approached the King Cobra, leaving himself open to attack. Sam's instinct was to call out a warning of his own, but he choked it back, knowing it could draw attention in the very direction he didn't want it. He edged back toward the door.

As often seemed to be the case, more so when Sam leaped in well in advance of the incident central to his mission, the main event itself transpired in the blink of an eye.

From the corner of his eye, Chen spotted the movement as Yasuo headed back out, and his attention was drawn to the doorway. Recognizing Matanaru, King of the Cobras, just outside, he alerted his gang to the presence of the enemy, and Li, his Scorpion Crown Prince, at his right side, took immediate action. The form that action took was to raise his weapon and fire at his Master's rival.

Sam's peripheral vision, coupled with his rear guard's perspective, made him aware of the danger and he acted on pure instinct, fuelled by adrenaline. He pushed off from the wall he had been sticking too, and zoomed across the open plain on his skates, on an intercept - or more accurately a collision - course with Yasuo, whom he could see was about to step straight into the line of fire.

Barreling into the boy, Sam pushed Yasuo out of harm's way, and finally came to a halt by using the opposite doorframe as a brake. It was only once he'd ceased his forward momentum and caught his breath that Sam became aware of a sharp, burning sensation in his side. Thinking it may be stitch from his exertions, he bent forward and clasped his hand to his side, still breathing hard. The contact intensified his pain, at which point it occurred to Sam to wonder if the bullet had found its mark in  _him_.


	13. Twelve

**San Francisco**

All heads on both sides of the conflict turned instinctively to the doors as the dramatic events unfolded, their own part in the battle temporarily forgotten at the sight of the kid on skates tearing out of nowhere at lightening speed to prevent his friend from stopping the bullet. The sound of the gunshot echoed loud around the huge auditorium of the warehouse; as did the cries both from the boy knocked to the ground and the one who'd gone on to collide with the door. They all expected him to collapse and die before their very eyes, certain he must have been hit. It was a sobering thought, the reality of the capabilities of the arms they wielded suddenly hitting home with a sickening jolt as sharp as Kaz's sudden halt. This was no cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians 'bang bang you're dead' game in the back yard with pointed fingers or plastic toy pistols for weapons. This was for real. This was for keeps.

Al hammered furiously on his hand link when he saw Sam bend over in pain, leaning on the door frame for support. Al too was convinced that his friend must have been shot in Yasuo's stead. While he waited for the verdict to come through from Ziggy, he took a closer look first hand.

"Sam? How bad is it, buddy? Where'd it get you?" he enquired, concern constricting his throat.

Sam's eyes were closed; a frown creased his brow. For a heart-stopping moment he said nothing, neither did he move.

Then he cautiously lifted his shirt and examined the source of the pain in his side. He drew in and blew out a long breath.

"Burns like the devil, Al, but it's uh, only a flesh wound," he finally reassured his companion, with a grimace that was trying to be a smile, "I was lucky, the bullet just grazed me in passing."

Almost simultaneously, Ziggy confirmed Dr. Beckett's diagnosis, much to Al's relief. "Zig says you need to get it dressed, Sam. Keep it clean so it doesn't get infected and you'll be fine."

Suddenly, Sam's head shot up, a look of alarm on his face as he scoured the area outside the warehouse.

"What's wrong, Sam?" Al followed his friend's gaze, though he didn't know what he was looking for.

"The bullet, Al. Where did it go? Did it hit Matanaru?"

"No, Sam, he's fine," Al was able to assure his friend, pointing to where the King Cobra had rushed forward to make sure that Yasuo was unhurt, and help him back to his feet. Yas was holding his elbow, where he'd knocked his funny bone. As Sam looked in their direction, both boys caught his eye and smiled at him, but with questioning glances. He gave them a thumbs-up to show he was okay.

"When you  **ladies**  have finished  _dancing_  around," Tad's voice suddenly rang out through the stillness and silence left by the shocking shooting, "we still have a dispute to settle with the Scorpions over who  _owns_  this prime piece of land."

With a sigh, Sam realized that he would have to act quickly to prevent the shoot-out from resuming. Holding up his hands to show he was unarmed he skated into the middle of the square patch of sunlight cast by the open doors, so that he was part way into the warehouse, but well visible. Passing Matanaru on the way, he whispered a simple, "With your permission…?" and received a nod of confirmation to proceed as he saw fit.

Al kept close to Sam, watching his back and as much of the rest of him as he could. "Careful, buddy," he cautioned, rather unnecessarily. Sam merely gave him a terse nod.

Coming to a stop as near 'centre stage' as he could, Sam cleared his throat a little nervously.

"There are better ways to settle this dispute than shooting it out indiscriminately," he suggested to the assembly, speaking up loud and clear to be sure everyone heard and understood. "There's no need to turn this into a bloodbath. I propose that each side choose a champion. Then we can settle this with  **honor** , a one-on-one, and to the victor the spoils."

A mumble; a mutter; a shout of agreement; another of "Who?" and one of "How?" greeted his ears from all sides. Someone shouted "Russian roulette!" and yet another "A duel, pistols at dawn, cool!"

Intrigued by the idea, both 'Kings' Mat and Chen approached the spokesman, the unspoken ceasefire agreement holding, at least for the moment.

"No," Sam corrected. "There's no honor is shooting somebody." Mat nodded his agreement vigorously; Chen merely looked on, his face inscrutable. "Hand to hand combat, a fair and equal fight," Sam clarified. Once more he was put in mind of the plot of West Side Story - which had perhaps been his subconscious inspiration - and hoped that this time the damage limitation plan would not blow up in  _his_ face as it had for Tony.

Gradually, all the members of both gangs had come out of hiding, and gathered round the trio, waiting to see what would be decided. Mat and Chen spoke together in hushed tones, so that even Sam couldn't hear what was said.

After a while, Mat leaned toward Sam, and asked him the question he had been expecting, "As it was your idea, would you stand as our champion, Kazuo?"

Sam knew it would further anger Tadayuki, who would doubtless wish to be chosen himself, but that couldn't be helped. He certainly wasn't about to let any of the other Cobras go up against a Scorpion. He nodded his assent.

"Kazuo Sakaguchi will be Champion for the Cobras," Matanaru announced proudly.

Tad took a step forward, his eyes blazing, nostrils flaring. Mat froze him to the spot with a stern look and the merest shake of his head.

The Scorpions had all seen 'Kazuo's' impressive martial arts skills, most of them up close and personal, both in the gym and since. None of them were keen to take him on in single combat, and so volunteers to act as the Scorpion Champion were conspicuous by their absence. If he were honest, Chen could not altogether blame them; 'Kaz' had bested him personally on more than one occasion. He realized that if he accepted the challenge himself, and lost, he would lose face not only with the enemy, but also with his own followers. It was a huge risk to take, especially since he privately acknowledged the superiority of the other's abilities. Nonetheless, he could not honorably order somebody else to do what he dare not do himself, and to forfeit the territory by failing to supply a Champion at all would bring even greater shame. Chen was left with no choice but to stand against Kaz himself. He could only hope that fortune would smile upon him and allow him to emerge victorious, thus regaining the respect due to him as the leader of the Scorpions. Hiding his trepidation well, he tried to turn the situation to his advantage by casting a barb at Fujiyama. If he were lucky, his counterpart would rise to the bait, and substitute himself.

"I  _personally_  shall stand as Champion for the Scorpions." Chen announced, " **I**  have no need to hide behind one of  **my**  minions. Still, if the King Cobra is  _afraid_ to face me himself…" he let the challenge hang in the air.

Sam saw Matanaru was about to respond; this was not going the way Sam intended. Before Mat could say a word, Sam countered, "The mark of a  _great_  leader is delegation."

The Cobras cheered at that, with the notable exception of Tadayuki, who glowered. "I  _trust_  this will be a fight to the  _death_ ," Tad observed loudly.

"No need for that," Chen hastened to declare, "we have already agreed terms. The fight will take place here and now. No-one else from either gang is to enter the arena for  _any_  reason until it is over. If this rule is broken, that side immediately forfeits."

Matanaru nodded to show that this had been agreed.

As providence would have it, the warehouse had once dealt in oriental rugs, and a few moth-eaten remnants still littered the place. They were mildewed and tatty, mostly threadbare, but two or three were still thick enough of pile to serve as a protection from the potentially fatal concrete flooring. These were carefully shaken and stretched out as a canvas for the champions to battle upon.

Hand gestures from both leaders had the gangs rearranging old packing crates around the edges of the rugs to mark out a combat area roughly equal to the large patch of sunlight on the ground. These doubled as ringside seats for the audience.

"The fight is to follow standard full contact martial arts rules, no weapons, no 'illegal' or 'foul' moves. It will not end until one of the participants surrenders, or is rendered unconscious or is otherwise unable to continue."

Al was concerned, "Sam, I don't like the sound of that. This could be a long…"

"Long as it takes," Sam whispered back dismissively out of the corner of his mouth.

"The winner gains this warehouse as territory for his gang, no arguments, no appeals, and no reprisals. Understood?"

A dozen or more heads could be seen nodding around the makeshift arena as both sides agreed to the terms.

"Since I shall be fighting Kazuo," Chen concluded, with a sneer at the King Cobra, "Fujiyama and Li," he pointed to his Crown Prince, "will watch to ensure there is no interference. A shame we do not have an impartial referee, but no matter. Are we ready?" The carpeted area cleared of non-combatants, Fujiyama and Li taking up positions at opposite corners.

Sam bent down, hiding the way it made his side hurt, and removed his skates and socks, handing them to Yas, and then nodded, "Ready." He wanted this over with, despite what he'd told Al. To show his preparedness, he turned straight on to Chen and gave a deep respectful bow to his opponent.

Chen simultaneously removed his own footwear, to even things up, and returned the bow.

The two barefoot competitors began fairly sedately, circling, each getting the measure of the other. Though Sam didn't want to prolong the fight unnecessarily, neither did he want to trounce Chen too soundly, since such an embarrassment to their leader may make one or more of the Scorpions get trigger-happy with thoughts of retribution. Sam knew he had to win, but he had to let Chen acquit himself admirably enough to be gracious in defeat.

And so it was for a while that Sam matched Chen move for move, letting the Scorpion get in a few 'lucky' strikes, and landing a few of his own, without either having the upper hand. He didn't make it look too easy, but Chen was starting to believe he had a chance of victory. Both sides were cheering on their champions, enjoying the display of skills and the tension of the match. Al had begun by impatiently urging Sam to 'lay the nozzle out with a flying noodle kick like you did in the gym', but then he realized that his friend was trying to leave the boy with his dignity, and applauded the leaper's strategy.

Things were going well, Sam had made Chen look good, and was about to start playing for real to wind the fight up when the Scorpion got in a true lucky strike. Chen swung round with his foot in a counter clockwise crescent kick just as Sam was executing a strike with his left arm, which left his side unprotected. The blade of Chen's foot snapped into violent contact with the precise spot where the bullet had grazed Sam's side. Sam hit the rugs, knocked down by the force of the impact and the searing pain. He gasped and clutched at the injured area.

"Foul!" Yasuo yelled from the side-lines, standing up indignantly.

"NO. Yasuo, stay back!" Sam hastily ordered, before his young friend could rush in and ruin everything.

Yasuo stayed as ordered, but he was far from happy. "That was a dirty move!" he insisted vociferously, "Everyone saw you'd been creased by that bullet. He should forfeit for such a low blow."

"I'm with him," put in Al, "are you okay, Sam?"

The Cobras were muttering their agreement, the Scorpions their disapproval of this statement. They all began fidgeting restlessly.

"Not so," Sam corrected, cringing still from the pain of the strike. "Any fighter worth his salt will look for a weakness in his opponent and take advantage of it. That's all Chen did. I should have guarded myself better. Besides, I  _haven't_ surrendered. It isn't over yet."

"Well spoken!" Chen could have pounced on his fallen opponent, and likely finished him in a couple of savage blows, but he had respect for the boy, so instead he offered his hand and pulled Kazuo back to his feet, bowing again.

Sam took the help getting up, and returned Chen's bow. The boy was a worthy opponent after all. His side blazed with pain, but he tried his best not to show it. He'd just declared it open season, but that didn't mean he wanted another dose of Chen's brand of medicine.

'Okay, you've made him look good enough,' Sam thought to himself, and proceeded to make short work of wearing the other boy into the ground with a series of lightening strikes, not giving Chen a moment to think about what was coming next. Before long, he had Chen on the mats in an arm lock, the boy panting for breath. Sam could see that his opponent had nowhere near his own level of stamina, and was tiring fast. "Had enough?" he whispered softly in Chen's ear.

Chen had had more than enough about five minutes earlier, but was not about to concede defeat. Gritting his teeth, he spat back at his aggressor, "I won't quit."

Sam had to admire his tenacity. He'd hoped not to have to hurt the boy, and still determined to ensure no  _serious_  damage was done. It looked like surrender was not going to be an option though, so something more radical would be needed. 'If only,' he thought to himself wistfully, 'I could fell him with a simple Vulcan nerve pinch. Spock really had it cushy.'

As Chen had done to Sam, so now Sam extended his hand and helped his opponent back to his feet. Once more, bows were exchanged. Then both combatants were instantly back on the attack, looking for an opening, hoping to land the winning blow and end this exhausting ballet. Chen began to concentrate his efforts on the other boy's injured side. He felt almost cowardly for doing so, but realized it was probably the only weakness he had  _any_  chance of exploiting. As a result, his moves became easy to predict, and Sam was able to forestall every one.

Chen was starting to stagger, worn out by the prolonged sparring. His blows were mistimed or falling short; there was insufficient energy behind them. Sam wondered whether, if he could just keep going a while longer, Chen would knock  _himself_ out from sheer exhaustion. The only problem with that strategy was that Sam was starting to tire himself. The ache in his side was draining his own energy reserves, as was the attempt to defeat an enemy he was trying  _not_  to harm.

Al could see the weariness in Sam's eyes. "Come on, buddy," he encouraged, "You can wipe the floor with this kid."

The look Sam gave him said, 'That's exactly what I'm trying to avoid!' The leaper knew that neither of them could stand to protract the fight much longer, though.

He watched the other boy maneuvering for another strike, and wondered how he could bring the battle to a satisfactory conclusion. Seeing Chen swing round to try and clip him on his side again with a flying kick of his own, Sam instinctively took a step back out of range. Failing to make contact with his target left Chen flailing in the air for a long moment before falling into the void left by Sam's retreating body. Chen crashed to the ground, landing awkwardly on his right foot.

Sam winced in sympathy at the look of agony on the boy's face. He would not have been surprised to hear the snap of bones splintering. Still Chen did not surrender, but gamely tried to regain his feet and come at his opponent again. He managed to get upright, but as soon as he tried to put weight on the injured foot, he buckled. Sam reached out and caught him before he could smack some other part of his anatomy on the floor, which though padded a little by the rugs, was still hard enough to hurt.

Chen tried for a moment to wave aside his help, straightening his back and holding his head proudly erect. "I'm…uh…no…ah…quitter…" he mumbled, even as he panted through the pain. Then he tried again to tread on his injured foot, and again would have fallen flat were it not for Sam's intervention.

"Aaaaaaarrrrrrrrhhhhh" Chen couldn't hold it in any longer, and grabbed at Sam's sleeve for a better purchase to stop him slipping to the ground.

"Let me help you to a seat, Chen. This derelict old dump isn't worth it," Sam said softly. "We both know you can't fight anymore."

Al had started hitting buttons the instant Chen hit the floor. "Zig says he's torn the plan… Huh, what…who's plan? Oh, the plantar fascia ligament? Is that it? Yeah. It even  _sounds_  painful! He's gotta keep his weight off it, Sam." Sam nodded his agreement.

"I… can't… surrender," Chen insisted again through clenched teeth, trying once more to lower his foot to the floor.

"I understand," Sam sympathized, speaking so only the Scorpion King could hear, "but there's stubborn and then there's downright stupid. You'd be crossing that line right now -  **if**  you could walk."

Chen had to laugh at that, though it soon turned to a grimace of agony. "You're right, Kazuo." He allowed the other boy to support him fully as he hopped toward a packing crate.

"It is over," he declared simply, sinking gratefully to a sitting position. "This warehouse is now Cobra territory." The Cobras cheered loudly, even Tad this time, while the Scorpions muttered, disgruntled. They had to admit it had been a fair contest though; their leader had just been unlucky.

Sam had Chen remove his red bandana, and used it to make a temporary support bandage. Chen gripped the edge of the crate as it was applied, his pale face grim as he gritted his teeth against the pain.

"Keep off it, keep it as still as possible, and get it looked at right away," Sam told him.

"Thanks, I will," Chen looked at Sam earnestly, and then added in a whisper, "Thanks for everything, Kazuo. I know you went easy on me so I wouldn't look a fool. I won't forget that in a hurry." He extended his hand, and Sam shook it, shrugging off the boy's gratitude.

Then both boys were swept up by their respective gangs, Sam in triumph, Chen to be taken to get medical attention. They were carried out into the sunlight, leaving the hard won territory without a second thought.

After a few rousing cheers Mat had the gang put Sam down, whereupon he clasped the boy warmly by the hand, and shook it in congratulations. He told Sam he was in his debt, and he could name his reward, even offering Kaz the position recently vacated by a disgraced Tadayuki. Once more, Tad growled in discontent as praises were heaped upon Sam for his masterful performance, his eyes blazing in sheer hatred as the upstart was offered  _his_  rightful place in the gang.

Then Mat presented Sam with the purple bandana that he'd used on the injured Tammy. Surprisingly, what happened next, which Sam thought would delight his nemesis, made Tad glare at him with even greater loathing than before, and earned him the comment "Treacherous dog" from under Tad's breath.

Sam took the bandana, but told Mat it was only temporary. "Yas and I want out of the Cobras," he told an astonished and disappointed King. "The only thing I ask as my reward is that I be allowed to take the beating on Yas' behalf as well, that I Jump Out for both of us."

"No! Sam, are you crazy? I thought we were gonna discuss this!" yelled a horrified holographic Admiral. "You can't  _possibly_  take a double Jump Out; it'll kill you for sure! Sam, are you listening to me? Tell him you've changed your mind; tell him you didn't mean it. Sam? Sam!" Al was bashing buttons like his life depended on it. Or rather Sam's life, which it well could. Neither Ziggy nor Sam himself offered Al any suggestion of an alternative.

**QLHQ**

Doctor Koulianos finished her shift in the infirmary with one less patient on her books. Initially, it had been against her better judgment to discharge the young man – he was still in need of 24/7 care in many respects, though not all medical of course - but something told her it would work out for the best in his case.

Leaving the rest of her patients in the capable care of her head nurse, Cassie headed out of the infirmary to make a 'house call'.

A frazzled looking Verbena Beeks, who'd been sitting with Sammi-Jo for the past three or four hours, answered the door and admitted her.

"Any change?" Cassie asked, with no real expectation of a positive response.

"She slept for a while, now she's just lying there staring into space again. She hasn't said a word, and she's still not eating. If only I could get her to talk to me. I've tried everything I know, I just can't seem to get through to her." Bena shook her head sadly.

Cassie nodded in sympathetic agreement. This total withdrawal wasn't good for Dr Fuller, either mentally or physically, and the longer it went on, the harder it would be to break her out of it.

"Don't worry, we'll think of something," she said reassuringly. The last thing they needed was for Verbena to start feeling that she was letting S-J down. Dr Beeks was an invaluable member of the team, and if  _she_  started getting depressed, the place would go to the dogs in no time. "Get some rest," Cassie saw Bena was about to argue, probably cataloging all the things she needed to do. "No, I mean it, Bena, go get some rest or I'll have to sedate you!" She pretended to look stern and threatening, but Bena saw the twinkle in her eye.

"Yes, ma'am," she replied, giving her new best friend a quick hug. "Good luck," she whispered as she left.

With a sigh, Cassie went into Sammi-Jo's bedroom and looked at the forlorn young woman lying there. Sammi-Jo let Dr Koulianos feel her pulse, and check her forehead for fever, as if it were happening to someone else. She showed not the slightest sign of even realizing that the doctor was there.

Cassie sat on the easy chair next to the bed, as Verbena had before her, fluffing up the crumpled cushion behind her back to make herself more comfortable.

"Okay, Sammi-Jo, if that's how you want to play it,  _don't_  talk to me. How about I just talk to you for a while, huh?"

As she expected, Sammi-Jo didn't respond either way. She was still staring off into nothing, trapped in her own world of misery and depression.

So Cassie chatted about inconsequential things, about the weather, about S-J's décor, about the standard of the food in the canteen. Then she spoke about her day at the infirmary, without giving away any private details of her patients, of course. She talked about her admiration for the young man she had just discharged, and how well he was recovering from his appalling injuries, how his positive mental attitude had helped him to overcome numerous obstacles. It was not meant as a dig at Sammi-Jo, but rather to inspire.

Then Cassie decided to up the ante, and began to talk about herself. It was something she had not previously done with anyone, not even with 'Bena. She had never opened up to any of her new colleagues about the  _real_ Cassandra Koulianos. All they knew were the bare outlines – age, place of origin, where she had trained etc. The sort of thing you could get from her résumé.

"…and that's not all," she continued, deciding that it could help both Sammi-Jo and herself to get some things out into the open, "I know what it's like to live with a secret too. Shall I tell you something I've never voluntarily told another living soul?"

Naturally, Sammi-Jo didn't respond.

"I'll take that as a yes." Cassie didn't know if Sammi-Jo was even listening, but suddenly the idea of getting it off her chest was appealing. "Please don't tell anyone else," she said with a self-conscious giggle. At the moment, it would almost be a relief if Sammi-Jo did blurt out her secret. At least the young woman would be talking again. Yet Cassie was fearful of it becoming common knowledge. She had a pretty good idea how people would react, and she really liked it here. For the first time in years, she felt like she belonged, and she didn't want to lose that. She instinctively felt she could trust Sammi-Jo, though.

What she hadn't realized was that Verbena had neglected to shut the door to S-J's quarters securely, and someone had come in to see how she was – not sneaking, but quietly so as not to disturb S-J should she be sleeping. Al Calavicci stood now at the threshold to her bedroom door, wondering if he should clear his throat to announce his presence, and have Cassie clam up with a guilty start, or keep quiet and listen, hoping he didn't hear something that would make him think worse of the Doctor he had already come to admire and respect. For the sake of the Project, he decided that he should eavesdrop, and hung back so as not to be seen should she look up. He didn't like clandestine maneuvers such as this, but  _his_  instinct told him it was the right thing to do.

"How do I explain?" Cassie thought aloud. "Let me see… Let me start by saying I don't think it is any accident that I'm here now. I  **knew**  when I stepped into that hospital in Albuquerque that I would come out with a job; I'd just naturally assumed that I would be working there. When Bena took my details and said 'No promises,' I knew she was going to call me before  _she_  did." Cassie looked at Sammi-Jo, but she gave no sign that she had heard. "You see I have what some would call a gift. Personally, most of my life it's felt more like a curse. It's more than intuition; I guess it's some sort of psychic ability. Sometimes I just look at somebody and I know, absolutely know for one hundred percent certain, what's going on with them, what their problem is. I get feelings, or images flashing into my mind, or sometimes a voice. It can be a warning, or a suggestion. It varies. Sometimes it's something I need to do, other times, somebody else. You know something? It was no coincidence that the sprinklers conveniently 'malfunctioned' right before Sam leaped into that dolphin. I'd only just arrived, and when they showed me round and I first walked into the Waiting Room, I saw it coming. Luckily I had enough time while Sam was in limbo to convince Ziggy to flood the Waiting Room so that the poor creature wouldn't be traumatized at finding herself suddenly in a strange place, a strange body,  **and**  out of water. Ziggy covered for me with the malfunction story, so I wouldn't have to explain how I'd known. Sometimes it's instantly crystal clear like that; sometimes it starts in hints and vague feelings that build over time... Trouble is I have  **no**  control over it – when it will happen, what it will tell me."

Now she was talking, the words were tumbling out of Cassie, releasing years of hidden frustration and loneliness.

"Growing up, it made me  _different_ , you know? And when I tried to act on it to help people, I usually just freaked them out, and they bullied me because I scared them, so I learned to hide it, and mostly to ignore it. Only then when something bad happened that I'd 'seen' in advance and could have warned someone about, I felt guilty, like it was  _my fault_  they'd got hurt or heartbroken or whatever."

Listening from the doorway, Al shook his head in disbelief. It certainly explained a lot of things – such as Cassie turning up with that wheelchair for David. It was still hinky though, and he didn't like things he couldn't explain. It made him a bit uncomfortable to think she might be getting inside his head. Like when she'd asked about Ruthie. He shuddered.

"If I could switch it on and off at will, it might be okay," Cassie mused aloud. "If I could approach a problem, put my hand to my head and say 'Do this - or don't do that - and it'll be fine' then I could embrace it. That sort of thing only happens in Hollywood movies though. When I really  _need_  a flash of 'insight' - like in finding a way to help you, Sammi-Jo - well – zip, zilch, nada, as Al would say."

From his hiding place, Al fought not to splutter aloud at her impersonation of him.

Cassie looked at Sammi-Jo again, and fancied she saw her eyes focus for a moment; the head turn just a fraction in her direction. Maybe she was breaking through the barrier after all. She continued her 'confession'.

"You know, Sammi-Jo, it's only just occurred to me, but I think my mother had it too! Odd little things when I was growing up, you know? I reckon she knew I was gonna inherit it, even before I was born. That's why she chose to call me Cassandra. How could I have missed that until now? I thought she just liked the name, but it makes total sense. You know the story of Cassandra in Greek mythology?"

Once more, there was no reply, either to confirm or deny.

"She was the daughter of King Priam of Troy. Apollo, who wished to make her love him, gave her the gift of prophecy but when she spurned him, he cursed her to always predict the truth, but never be believed. Given to Agamemnon as spoils of war, she foresaw they would both be murdered, but as no one took her seriously, they died.

"I kinda feel like that sometimes. I've never been wrong yet, that's for sure, and whenever people start to think of me as being 'a bit strange', cos I can't altogether hide what I 'know', they get scared of me, and avoid me, or get nasty with me, so I have to move on. It's not much of a life, it gets very lonely." Cassie sighed a deep sorrowful sigh.

Al felt suddenly ashamed of himself. He was thinking very much along the lines she had described, and realized that such intolerance had plagued her all her life. She had not asked for this 'gift', nor did she have any control of it, she said. She was to be pitied, not condemned. What's more, she had never used her 'intuition' for anything but the best of motives, if his own experience were to go by. He may have resented the idea that she 'knew' about Ruthie, but without Cassie's prodding, he probably wouldn't have called and found out how ill she was. If Ruth had died of that fever, he would forever have regretted not seeing her. She was on the mend, it was true, and the visit had opened a can of worms  ** _he_**  certainly hadn't seen coming, not to mention the resentment Sam had felt at being deserted. Of course, he'd already decided to avoid Sam as much as possible for those interim days, lest he inadvertently let slip something that would bring into reality one of the nightmare scenarios he was told would result from any attempt to warn Sam about Keiko. Still, despite the downsides, it had been for the best that he'd gone to see Ruthie, and he had Cassie's psychic ability to thank for that.

"I have a feeling I really belong here, Sammi-Jo, that I could be happier here than I've been anywhere else. I don't want to have to move on again. I think I can finally start to accept who and what I am. And I've had the strongest feeling ever since I first met Bena, that I can do something really important. Wouldn't it be something if I could ' _see_ ' the way home for Sam?" Ever since she'd learnt about the Leaper's exile in the past, Cassie had been struck with the conviction that this could be the one thing that would make her predictions worthwhile. She wondered if it had been for this very reason that she had been 'led' to Project Quantum Leap.

Al couldn't help it. Before he realized what was happening, the word "Sam!" had escaped his lips in a heartfelt cry. He had wanted so badly for so long to get his time-trapped buddy home that every crumb of hope was seized upon.

Simultaneously, Sammi-Jo mumbled, barely audibly, "Let him rot."

Cassie leapt to her feet with a gasp, startled by the sound of both voices, and both embarrassed and frightened by the reality that they both now knew her secret. She looked around her as if seeking a means of escape.

"Al, ah…erm…did you hear that? I think Sammi-Jo said something…" She tried to distract him from herself by focusing on S-J. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other nervously.

"Don't worry, Cassie," Al hastened to reassure her, "I'm not about to send you packing."

The relief she felt could be seen in the relaxation of her shoulders, "You heard…everything?" she queried, wanting to be sure he wouldn't change his mind.

"The whole thing, Doc. I can't pretend I'm  _entirely_ comfortable with it, but I'm smart enough to recognize that you could be an even bigger asset to us than I first thought. Just be sure you keep me informed immediately if you get any 'inside information' that could help the Project in any way. Deal?" Al had moved into the room, and now stood close to Dr Koulianos.

She reached forward and took his outstretched hand, shaking it with a firm grip. "Deal," she agreed, then impulsively stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks, Al."

"Ahem!" A female voice in the doorway, clearing her throat purely to make herself noticed made them both jump, instantly putting distance between them. Al fully expected it to be Tina, who would no doubt throw a new hissy fit and give him a sound slapping for dallying with yet another 'other woman'. Having found the main door slightly ajar, he  _really_  should have made sure he shut it behind him.

In fact, it was Dr Donna Elysee, "Am I interrupting something?" she asked, with a gleam in her eye.

"Nothing important." Al told her.

"Not at all," Cassie put in simultaneously.

Donna shrugged, and waved her hand dismissively. "I'm not gonna ask. Cassie, Zig says you're needed in the Waiting Room. Kazuo's complaining of a pain in his side."

Glad to escape the awkward situation, Cassie nodded in acknowledgement, "On my way," she stated, and hurried out, with a glance at Al, which was returned with a reassuring smile. Her secret was safe.

The atmosphere still hanging between Al and Donna was broken by a sound from the bed, drawing both their attentions to the young woman lying there. She was mumbling under her breath again, at first unintelligibly. As they got closer, and listened harder, they caught odd words.

"..thought… he… different…no different… **all**  men…bastards…"

Donna sat on the bed and held Sammi-Jo, who was rocking back and forth as she muttered. "I hear you there, S-J," her step-mother told her, "I'd have staked my life Sam was different too, but I guess no matter how noble they seem, a man is just a man, and will obey his basest nature when put to the test."

Despite his sympathy for Sammi-Jo's plight, and for Donna's feelings, which he could understand as being hurt, Al couldn't stand idly by and hear the whole of the male population in general, and Sam in particular, being slandered in this way. He stepped up to the bed, 'til he was standing over Donna.

"Just a minute, that's  _way_  out of order. Not all men are like that; and  **especially**  not Sam – no  _way_ would he have done it if there had been any other way. You make it sound so – casual. It wasn't like that at all. And if you love him like you're supposed to, you should trust he was not 'obeying his basest nature'. Sheesh, give the guy a break."

"I wouldn't still be here if I didn't love Sam, you know that, Al!" Donna shot back at him accusingly, getting to her feet and pushing past him, then pacing as Al himself was wont to do. "But how  _can_  I love a man who would…who could…" She put a hand up to her face, swiping angrily at the tears that were running down her cheek.

Al knew the time for skirting the issue was over, it was time to get tough and make these two realize just what  _had_  happened, and why. He wearily, hesitantly sat on the edge of S-J's bed, taking the spot Donna had left, "I'm his friend and as such, in my own way I love him every bit as much as you do. But caring about someone sometimes means helping them to face difficult decisions. Do you really think  **I** _wanted_  to have to force Sam to do that? It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Ever. I'd have rather faced Deng again than see the look in Sam's eyes when I finally madehim see why he had to…"

Sammi-Jo was hearing the words, but the meaning was just out of grasp somehow. She interrupted him, her voice loud and clear for the first time in days, "You? You  _made_  him do it? That makes you  _worse_  than him! You brute, you beast, you lecherous old bastard! Did you enjoy Observing that, huh, Al? Did you?" Sammi-Jo lashed out and pounded on Al's torso with both fists flailing, her head shaking from side to side in rage, her blows at first wild and aimless, but gradually focusing on Al's chest with a ferocity that threatened to crack his ribs. "I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!" she shrieked over and over and over again, as she pummeled him furiously, beating out all the anger and frustration and fear and hatred she felt toward her abusers, as well as her righteous indignation at the current situation.

Donna stood open mouthed; unable to intervene on either's behalf, totally shocked by what was unfolding before her.

Al could easily have restrained his attacker, but he allowed Sammi-Jo to vent her feelings upon him. He didn't want her to see him as just another 'typical' man forcing her into submission. That was the last thing she needed right now. So he let her have the upper hand, to be in control. It was in part his way of paying penance for his role in Sam's shame, and he was also glad to do whatever he could to ease the burden this young lady had carried secretly for so many years. It was, he told himself even as he winced in pain, much less a beating than many he'd survived in the jungle, and it was for a far worthier cause.

Finally, Sammi-Jo exhausted herself, and her blows became feeble and half-hearted. Her shrieks of condemnation and hatred subsided into wracking sobs. She was suddenly too tired to be angry with him any more. Without a word, Al enfolded her tenderly in his arms, letting her rest her head on his shoulder as she cried it out. He stroked her hair gently and keened to her softly and soothingly, as a father might a tearful child who'd fallen over and scraped their knee, or woken with night terrors. It tore him apart to have her so upset; to know she was hurting so deeply cut  _him_  to the core, too. She was like a fragile little butterfly trembling in his arms, and he barely dared to breathe lest he crush her.

"There, there, Sammi-Jo, it's gonna be all right now. You're safe now, it's all over - your Uncle Al is here." He bent his head and kissed the top of hers affectionately. "Hush now, everything's gonna be okay." Gradually, she relaxed against him, reassured by the words, the tone, and the closeness of his warm embrace. Even the smell of stale tobacco on his jacket was comforting in its familiarity. She squeezed him in a tight hug, which took his breath away and pressed on the flesh her berating had tenderized.

"Aahhh," he sighed, "careful, hon."

Sammi-Jo pulled back and looked up at him, as if realizing for the first time that she might actually have hurt him. Lowering her eyes, she blushed, and mumbled, "Sorry, Uncle Al."

"I'll live," he reassured her, "you feel better for that?" He dipped his chin to indicate the punching bag she'd made of his chest.

"Oh, I dunno, Al," she sighed in her turn, "I just wanna make sense of all this. I just need to know 'why', y'know?"

"As to what happened to you in college, or to your parents, I'm sorry, S-J, but I don't have any answers for you. I wish to God I did. I  _can_  try and explain regarding Sam, though, if you're both willing to listen, without prejudging him."

"Ok, Al, I'll listen, but this had  _better_  be good," Donna moved back to the easy chair and sat down, as if for a bedtime story. Folding her hands in her lap, she gave him a steady, piercing stare.

Al looked to Sammi-Jo, seeking a sign of her willingness to hear what he had to say.

"I doubt there's  **anything** you could possibly tell me to change the way I feel, Al, but go ahead, knock yourself out."

"Let me ask you Sammi-Jo, would you wish any other woman to have to go through… what you went through?"

Sammi-Jo replied vehemently, shocked that he could even suggest it, "Not even my worst enemy, Al. You can't  _possibly_  imagine what it was like. No woman should have to endure that."

"Oh, I agree totally, Sammi-Jo," Al assured her sincerely. "Now let me get this straight again - you're also telling me you honestly think Sam should have refused to become a rapist, under  _any_  circumstances?"

Sammi-Jo and Donna rejoined in unison, "Exactly."

"No question, Al," Sammi-Jo went on. "He shouldn't have even considered it for a single moment."

Donna added, "I love my husband, Al, but if he'd stuck by his principles and died with honor instead of taking hers, I'd have more respect for his memory than I can  _ever_  have for him as a man now. He took the selfish way out, saving his own skin."

"What he did was unforgivable, Al," Sammi-Jo reiterated.

"But, S-J," Al countered emphatically, "you just said you wouldn't wish your fate on another woman,  _any_  other woman, and yet now you tell me that your father should have sat back and allowed that very fate to befall Keiko, a fourteen year old girl? Or rather, he wouldn't have sat back, he'd have tried to stop it, paid with his life, and it would  **still** have happened."

Throwing aside all sensibilities, he spelled out to them the precise fate Sam would have faced, giving all the gory details he had spared Sam himself. The ladies gasped in horror at the vividly gruesome image he conjured up. "How would that have helped  _anyone_? You two have absolutely  **no**  idea." Al was getting cross now, incensed that they could be so narrow minded as to miss the impossible dilemma Sam had faced. "You're saying you'd rather condemn that poor girl to a lengthy and brutal gang bang, every bit as horrendous as Sammi-Jo endured, and on top of that condemn your husband," he pointed to Donna, "and your father," he indicated Sammi-Jo, "to be viciously, horrifically mutilated and savagely murdered in a pointless self sacrifice, than have him do his level best to minimize her suffering - which he did - at the risk of his own immortal soul. How can  _that_  be selfish and unforgivable? You know something, ladies – you're a real piece of work, the pair of you!" Al made an expansive gesture, incredulous that they couldn't see the obvious. He turned his back on them and stalked off across the room, starting to pace in frustration.

"I guess I can sort of understand how Sam would choose to do it, given such a grizzly death as the alternative," conceded Sammi-Jo. "I'm not saying I could ever condone it, but I can understand."

"He didn't make his choice based on that option," Al corrected her, his tone still a little harsh. "I didn't tell him exactly what happened to Kazuo in the original history. It wasn't necessary. Sam made his decision because of what I told him would happen to Keiko at the hands – and other parts - of Tadayuki and the rest. He was more than ready to die rather than be the one to defile her. What he  _wasn't_ ready to do was allow  **her**  to suffer a fate far worse than death. Or is that too strong a description, Sammi-Jo?" He looked her straight in the eye, and held the look.

Sammi-Jo clasped her hands round her knees and lowered her head. "Not strong enough, Al, not by a long way," she confirmed, starting to appreciate fully what would have happened had Sam behaved as she'd thought she wanted him to.

"Sammi-Jo," Al returned to her side and tenderly put a hand on her shoulder. "What Sam did for Keiko, can you  _honestly_  tell me that if you'd been offered that alternative…"

"Well, not by Sam, obviously!" Donna's voice was scandalized.

Al caught himself in the realization that despite the parallels, Sam could never have righted Sammi-Jo's wrong in the same way, for substituting incest was not much of an improvement. "No, of course not by Sam!" he returned. "But if someone  **like**  Sam were to leap back in time and spare Sammi-Jo that night long ordeal by having gentle intercourse with her, even  _without_  her consent…"

He didn't dot the i's or cross the t's. He didn't need to. He could see in Sammi-Jo's tear filled eyes that she understood at last.

Sammi-Jo bit her lip and gave a slight nod.

Al didn't ask if that meant Sam was forgiven. Forgiveness might take a little longer, but at least they had taken the first step.

"I suppose when you put it like that…" Donna had reached her own level of understanding too, and Al was confident forgiveness would soon follow. Now if he could just get  _Sam_  to forgive  _himself_ …

"Admiral!" Ziggy cut into his thoughts, her tone urgent.

"What is it, Zig?" he queried, on his feet and heading for the door instinctively.

"Dr Beckett is about to Jump Out of the Cobra gang. I think he would appreciate your support."

"On my way," Al intoned, as he hastily took his leave of Sam's family and rushed toward the Imaging Chamber.

Sammi-Jo looked up at Donna, and by unspoken agreement, they tidied themselves up before following him to Control.


	14. Thirteen

**San Francisco**

**Monday 1st March 1976**

All arrangements had been made. Yas was not to be present at the Jump Out. Should Sam fail to honor his part of the agreement, they would deal with Yas accordingly later. He wished Kaz luck as they parted at the school gates, Yas to go home, Sam to his appointment with destiny.

They surrounded Sam as they had when he first Leaped in, but this was to be more than 'a little beating' and the small crowd seemed far more intimidating, even though he knew now that they were only kids. It did not bode well that he was not even expected to stay on his feet this time. The only conditions were that he could not fight back or defend himself in any way, and he must survive the ordeal. Al repeatedly warned him that fulfilling this last condition could well prove impossible, even for Sam.

Tadayuki circled round him, jabbing his head in Sam's face like a Cobra striking at its prey. Sam did not flinch, nor even blink. On his second circuit, Tad snatched at Sam's jacket from behind, and ripped it from him, almost pulling his arms from their sockets in the process.

'Dishonorable discharge' thought Al, arriving just in time to witness it; 'they are stripping him of his marks of rank.'

Sure enough, the bandana was removed as well, and he was made to surrender the flick knife. Not that he would have wanted to keep it. The Becketts had never been ones for weapons of stealth. A good honest hunting rifle was a different matter, assuming the prey to be a legitimate target, but using a knife on another human being was beyond the pale in John Beckett's book, and his son was of the same mind, despite the incident with Mr. Peng indicating to the contrary.

Tad had no such reservations as to what was going too far. He continued to circle Sam, and on the next pass he deftly swished his switchblade, slicing cleanly through Sam's crisp white T-shirt from hem to neckband, without so much as nicking his skin. He followed through by wrenching the remains from Sam's torso, leaving him bare-chested and shivering. The garment was balled up and tossed contemptuously into the rusty fence behind them as being of no further importance.

Fujiyama held up a hand to indicate that Tadayuki should do no more. Tad backed away with a deferential bow, but the look he gave Sam could have formed a glacier in an equatorial rainforest.

Matanaru stepped forward just a little, and leaned toward Sam almost conspiratorially.

"Even now, it's still not too late to reconsider, Kaz. Just say the word and we'll forget all about this unpleasantness. You belong with us; we can do great things together."

"Sorry to disappoint you," replied Sam, and he sounded genuinely regretful, "but we've made our minds up."

"What if I let Hashimoto out lightly, say - no more than a Jump-in? On condition you stay. How about it, I can't say fairer than that, can I?" the leader smiled benevolently on his favorite subject.

"Very generous of you," conceded Sam, "but I'm afraid we come – or rather go – as a package."

The smile evaporated instantly, to be replaced by a look of bitter disappointment and hurt at such betrayal. "Very well, then. You can't say I didn't give you every opportunity to avoid this. On your own head" ('and body' he whispered) "be it."

He stepped back and drew himself up, the regal commander once more.

"Let us all be  _absolutely_  clear about this," he pronounced loudly, drawing in each and every one of the gang. "Kazuo Sakaguchi and Yasuo Hashimoto wish to renounce the Cobras, and leave our brotherhood forever. They understand that to do this they must Jump-out, and are clear as to what that entails. Correct?"

He looked straight at Sam, and there was just a hint of regret still in his eye, a faint pleading for Kaz to change his mind yet and stay. Sam met his eye, and replied, "Understood". He understood all right. Jumping-out was twice as long and twice as brutal as Jumping-in.

"In an unprecedented move, and in recognition of his former services to the Cobras (again the slightest glimpse of sorrow as he caught Sam's eye, the look saying: 'reconsider, I'll make it okay.'), we have graciously decided to grant Kazuo's request, and allow him to Jump-out on behalf of both himself and Yasuo." He made it sound as if they were doing him a great favor. "Cobras, you are to proceed with full vigor. No quarter has been asked, nor should be given, in light of this arrangement."

As the trouncing crept ever closer, the temptation grew strong in Sam to accept Mat's offer. Surely getting Yas out was the really important thing? Kaz was stronger and more mature. He would probably be able to handle it from here. Did it  _really_  need him to go through such maltreatment? Jumping out was twice as long; twice as brutal; and twice over - for himself  **and**  for Yas. Deep down, Sam knew the answer. Kaz had tried to stand up to the gang first time, and had paid with his life. He couldn't leave him there. Still, the "full vigor" bit didn't appeal much.

Steeling himself determinedly, Sam reminded himself why he had volunteered for this - for Yas' sake certainly, to protect the boy - but also in penance for his transgression. Each and every blow would be humbly taken as a badge of shame for his unpardonable sin toward Keiko.

This time, the gang kept their shoes on as if to emphasize that they meant business. Sam drew some slight comfort from the fact that most wore sneakers rather than steel-capped hard boots, though predictably Tad's shoes looked substantially more robust. By contrast, Sam's own shoes and socks were removed from him.

"Ready?" asked the Cobra King at last, of all assembled in general, but of Kaz in particular.

"I am ready," avowed Sam, swallowing hard and hoping his heart wouldn't choke him on its way back to his chest.

**QLHQ**

Cassie had made a routine examination of Kazuo on his first arrival and found him to be in perfect health. He was also calm and rational and level headed, and had therefore not required medication to control him, for which she was grateful.

He had spent most of his time in the Waiting Room; she had been informed, in practicing his martial arts skills and keeping himself fit.

Cassie wasn't altogether sure how the leaping process worked. As far as she could tell most times Sam leaped body and soul together, and the Leapee's body was there in the waiting room, wearing Sam's aura, whilst in other leaps, as with the dolphin, Sam's consciousness merely appeared to 'possess' the Leapee. It seemed that 'GFTW' as the nickname went, knew what was most appropriate to achieve each leap, and made it so. No matter whether it was Sam's body or Kazuo's in the Waiting Room, it was good that it was being exercised.

This visit, however, found Kazuo lying on his side, clutching himself and pulling a face that clearly said he was in extreme discomfort. She hurried over to the bedside, opened up her med kit and performed a thorough examination. She had been told that few Project personnel interacted with the Leapee's, for good reason, but those that did for the most part saw Sam's aura. Al, being tuned to Sam's brainwaves, evidently saw the Leapee, though he retained an awareness of Sam's aura. Like looking at one person and seeing two. She knew how disconcerting that was, for it was happening to her too. She saw Kaz lying before her, but from time to time it was like she was looking at Sam. Another side effect of her 'gift' she supposed.

The pain Kaz complained of was in his left side, alleviating her initial concern that he had developed appendicitis. She could see no obvious cause for it, and questioned him at length as to when it had first manifested, and how exactly it felt.

Kazuo described a burning, stinging sensation that had first appeared a few hours earlier. It had subsided after a couple of sharp attacks, and he'd assumed he'd just strained something practicing. Rest and refraining from anything strenuous seemed to have made it vanish after a period of aching, but now it was back, and spreading.

As Cassie continued to explore all possible causes, Kazuo began reacting very strangely and alarmingly, moving around on the bed as if trying to escape an attacker, putting his hands up in defensive postures, crying out in pain almost as if he were being punched and kicked – Cassie realized with a shock that he was, in effect, being savagely beaten up.

Cassie looked at Kazuo, and suddenly she clearly saw Sam. The process Al had referred to a 'synergizing' must have been taking place, and Kazuo was 'feeling' what was happening to Sam.

"Ziggy, is the Admiral with Sam?" she asked the ether urgently, knowing Kazuo was too preoccupied with pain to notice the breach of protocol.

"Indeed, Doctor."

"Thank God for that!" she breathed, as she anaesthetized the young Leapee to spare him from sharing the agonizing ordeal she had just 'seen' Sam starting to endure.

That this was only a foretaste of the horror soon to follow, she shuddered to behold so clearly in her mind's eye, and having made sure that Kazuo was resting comfortably, she hurried out to let Control know what was coming, not caring that she would have to 'come out' about her secret to convince them.

**San Francisco**

"Enough."

When that one word finally came, Sam thought it the most wonderful he had ever heard. He'd been kicked and punched and pummeled and pushed around from one assailant to another until every part of him had been thoroughly tenderized. His injured side was an angry throbbing ache, and it was joined now by too many other sore spots to count. Every part of him hurt from the bones out.

He'd lost track of time long before Mat declared he'd gone his allotted rounds, and several times he'd felt that he  _had_  in fact died of his injuries and been sent to Purgatory, and that the beating was therefore  _never_  going to end; but in the end he'd survived.

Not unscathed, certainly, not by a long way, but survived nonetheless.

He'd met their terms, taken his Jumping-out beating,  _and_ Yasuo's too, and not fought back or given in.

He was sure that as soon as he could feel anything other than the intense pain, he would feel a strong sense of satisfaction that at least Yasuo and Kaz's futures were assured.

By the time they had finished with him, he'd been thoroughly and literally beaten into the ground, and yet he was still technically the victor.

Subdued, but not subjugated.

In his prayers, he'd surrendered himself to the Will of his Maker, showing his readiness to pay with his life should that be asked of him. That he'd lived he felt probably had more to do with sparing Emiko from the heartbreak of losing Kaz than any sign of forgiveness toward himself, Sam Beckett. Right now, he felt that perhaps death would have been too compassionate after all, and he was being made to suffer these agonies as a lesson.

Al, once convinced he would not renege on the arrangement, had run the numbers and promised him that it wouldn't hurt for long. Once the boys were safely out of the gang, Al assured him that he'd Leap-out and on to his next adventure, and be healed.

Only he wasn't Leaping. No tingle. No blue haze. No relief from the deep, all-over aching of his body. Perhaps his punishment was to be to live his life out in Kaz's aura, faced with his victim at frequent intervals - on a street corner, in a store, forever haunting him with the unspoken knowledge of what he'd done. He hoped not, for Kaz's sake as well as his own.

He'd always faced his Leaps with the confidence of knowing he was doing the right thing, and while there had been some occasions where he'd done distasteful things for the greater good, as with the Klan, he had now overstepped the boundary. No longer could the ends justify the means. He had become every bit as bad as those people he had sought to protect the innocent from. Didn't the worst of the worst of humanity justify their actions in some such way? What made  _him_  any better than the dregs of society, such as serial killers who killed prostitutes to 'clean up the streets' and claimed they were doing a public service? In the end, it didn't matter how good his intentions were, they still paved the way to Hell, and he'd started out on that road when he knifed Peng. Raping Keiko seemed like the point of no return.

Still, no matter how profound the depths of Sam's self-loathing, it did nothing to help him cope with the reality of the agony upon agony his Jump-out beating had heaped upon him. His head swam and his body screamed silently for mercy.

'Okay, I'm ready now' he mentally declared, his body pleading that he'd been punished enough, but still nothing happened.

He looked up at Al, his watery eyes challenging - make the pain go away; make Ziggy tell you why I haven't Leaped. Make me Leap.

Al shrugged his shoulders, a look of helpless sympathy on his face. Ziggy was giving him nothing, and he could do or say nothing to ease Sam's suffering, either physical or psychological. Al's heart ached with empathy for his friend.

The crowd had broken up, and most of Sam's assailants drifted off, no longer concerned with one who was no longer one of their own. There had been some grudging praise for his stamina and courage, surprise that anyone should volunteer to double his exit fee, much less be able to pay up in full, without bankruptcy. Especially when he had only Jumped In so recently that he still bore the marks. There had even been some complaints that  _they_  had been worn out by the effort of administering his Jump-out! By the time they were almost out of earshot, though, conversation had already moved on to other matters.

Only two of the group remained, King Matanaru and his would-be Crown Prince. Mat was being more than generous in his approbation, and expressing renewed regret that such a promising recruit had chosen to leave the fold. Tad was outwardly in full agreement, but his face was sour.

"Would you like me to see him home, my liege?" Tad offered obsequiously. "I think he has earned that last concession from us."

'Indeed he has, Tad, and how magnanimous of you to offer."

Tadayuki positively glowed in the light of his hero's praise, and promised to 'take care of Kaz as he deserved'. Mat bade them both farewell and departed.

Sam was more than surprised at the source of this offer of assistance, but was grateful for any he could get. Jumping in may have left him stiff and sore, and he'd have sooner not had that bout of sickness from the stagnant water, but it had been a walk in the park to how he felt now. He had  _no_  idea how he might be able to get past Emiko without giving her heart failure at the state he was in after this pasting.

He felt somewhat queasy this time round too, though now the nasty taste in his mouth was not brackish water but blood, from a swollen split lip, and the gums of a couple of loose teeth.

Tad seemed in no hurry to help Sam up as he watched the retreating figure of his Liege Lord disappear out of sight, but then Sam was in no hurry himself.

Tomorrow morning would do fine, when he'd hopefully had a chance to sleep the worst of it off. He rolled gingerly over onto his side in a vain attempt to find a position that didn't hurt so much. It was going to take more than a bucket load of Emiko's liniment to ease these aches.

Tad finally straddled Sam's prostrate form and reached down to offer a hand to help Sam up. With some reluctance, and more difficulty, Sam stretched his own out to take it.

"Thanks," he whispered - his voice as feeble as the rest of him.

Tad smiled broadly, and then sniggered. " _Now_ you'll get what you deserve," he declared, grabbing Sam's arm and twisting it sharply up behind his back, causing Sam to gasp both in shocked surprise and in pain. Simultaneously, his assailant knelt low over him, and with his free hand grabbed Sam by the hair, yanked it hard and slammed his head roughly into the ground, several times.

Al bounded forward indignantly, trying to intercede; though he knew he could do nothing, "You cowardly bastard, hitting a guy when he's down."

Sam was no longer forbidden to defend himself, nor prohibited from fighting back, but he found he had no strength to do either.

"Why?" he managed to gasp, "Why're… you… doing this?"

"Let's see, shall we?" Yamashita appeared to deliberate for a moment, but without relinquishing his hold on Sam's arm. When he spoke again, he punctuated his comments with snatches of increased pressure, and twisting and jarring and other subtle assaults upon his person that made Sam wince and whimper. He could do little to impede his attacker, but brought his right arm up to cradle his strained shoulder, and try to keep it attached to his body.

Yamashita catalogued a host of minor irritations, and then built up to the big league stuff. His complaints mostly centered on the fact that he was jealous, though he didn't say so in as many words. He obviously couldn't stand that Sam was a far more skilled martial artist than himself, couldn't bear that Kaz had supplanted him as favorite in Mat's eyes, yet illogically he was more than annoyed by Sam's decision to leave the gang. This to him appeared the worst betrayal, the greatest treachery.

He ranted and raved, and his twisted mind took off, ultimately blaming Kazuo/Sam for every bad thing that had ever been done to him in his entire life. And to give him his due, his short life had been bad enough to make a choirboy turn to evil, from the violent murder of his parents witnessed as a six year old, to years of atrocious abuse at the hands of his recently deceased foster father and beyond.

As he built up his verbal tirade, he intensified his physical attack. He seemed determined to prove that his martial arts were also to be reckoned with. So he brought his elbow down sharply into Sam's left kidney, and while his victim was shrinking back in agony, launched himself in a back flip over Sam's torso, twisting round to grab him in a head lock between strong thighs that gripped almost to the point of strangulation. Sam could do no more than claw feebly at Tad's legs, and struggle to breathe. He knew one false move could snap his aching neck or crush his windpipe in an instant.

It was only when Sam's eyes began to roll in his head, and the bully thought that his victim might not live to hear him complete his vitriolic diatribe, that Tad released his hold on Sam and bounced to his feet, using the prone figure as a springboard. Sam rubbed at his stomach and his neck, his breath rasping painfully between wracking coughs, his chest heaving. Tadayuki towered over him, menacing, berating him loudly for sins real and imagined. To keep him focused, he repeatedly kicked Sam hard on the soles of his bare feet, sending pain snaking up through his body to the very roots of his hair.

"W-what… d'you… w-ant… from… m-me?" Sam croaked.

"What I  **want** "  _a swift kick to the stomach_  "is for you to  **die** "  _boot met ribs in a bone crunching stomp "_ and  _go… to…_ **Hell**!" The last three words were measured out by stamping on Sam's right knee, followed by a grinding back and forth with his heel on the medial collateral ligament. Sam groaned, wheezed and cried out feebly "Aarrhh", "Aaargh", "Aaaarrhh", as each successive assault was perpetrated upon him.

Still, there was the faintest trace of defiance in his eyes as Sam responded in a hoarse whisper:

"The first ( _cough_ ) I think…. I can…uh, m-manage ( _wheeze_ ) f-fairly… e-easily. As for…. ah… the second, it's…. out of… my h-hands." Violent coughs shook Sam's enfeebled body, even as his brain began assimilating the truth of this testimony.

"Are you crazy, Sam? Don't antagonize him;" advised Al, "This guy makes Charles Manson look like a Nobel Prize winning philanthropist. He's gonna kill you, buddy."

Sam looked at Al out of the corner of one bloodshot eye; his expression clearly said 'You think?'

Tad was totally out of control - laying into Sam with equal if not greater ferocity than that demonstrated by the entire gang together in the Jump Out that Sam had only just undergone. Blows from fists and feet rained down on Sam like hailstones, and he was dying for want of an umbrella. He could only shield his head with his arms, leaving the rest of him an open target.

With each brutal strike, Sam was getting weaker and weaker. Al could see that he could not endure much more. Bruises were blossoming on Sam's already battered flesh before his eyes, fresh bruise atop new bruise upon old bruise, and spreading out like oil on water 'til they merged and it was impossible to tell where one bruise ended and the next began…

…The blows had gradually slowed in their delivery, and eased in their ferocity, until Tad finally seemed to have expended both his rage and his energy, and Al hoped that he would leave so that he could see about finding Sam some desperately needed help and healing.

It was not to be.

Having exhausted himself, Tad decided to administer a different sort of punishment.

When the beating stopped, Sam merely lay still, thankful for the respite. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the all-pervading pain, but nothing seemed to help. He'd have liked to slip into unconsciousness, to escape, but while Tad remained he dare not.

What happened next made his eyes snap wide open again.

Tad had taken out his flick knife, and firstly used it to prize up the surgical tape on the gauze dressing Sam had applied to his side wound. When he had enough of a purchase, Tad ripped both tape and dressing aside, revealing a raw graze of some 3-4 inches long, swollen and inflamed by the repeated pounding. Sam gasped feebly at its removal, and the sting of cold fresh air on the wound.

Al was incensed, "Haven't you done enough, you bastard? Leave him alone!"

Though he had heard nothing, Tad felt he hadn't done nearly enough. He pressed the cold steel of the knife lengthwise on the wound, seeing if the flat of the blade were wide enough to cover the damaged flesh with a detached curiosity. Sam squirmed at the contact, too weak to do more than catch his breath.

Next, Tad tested the blade, holding it up and looking along the edge, commenting on how sharp it looked, then bending over and holding it close to Sam's eyes, so that he might be sure it was true. He took hold of a single hair over Sam's ear, pulled it taut, and cut through it.

"Let's see how well it slices, shall we?" he asked rhetorically.

"Don't you dare!" yelled Al, taking a swipe at the bully, though of course the blow went straight through unnoticed.

Tad dare all right.

He touched the blade to Sam's side, and slowly drew it down the centre, the full length of the existing wound, tracing a line of sticky redness as he pierced the flesh, not deeply, but enough to open up the skin and cause Sam to twitch like popcorn on a griddle. Every instinct in Sam cried out to do something to defend himself, but his body would not – could not - move in response to his brain's urgings. There was just nothing in reserve to draw upon. His mouth opened wide, but he hadn't even the strength to scream in pain, and nothing but a faint protracted wheeze came out.

"Sam!" Al yelled for the both of them. "Ziggy, we gotta  **do**  something! Tell me what I can do." Frustration burned like a fever in the Admiral.

What Tad did was to play with his knife again, altering the manner in which he held it. "Does it hurt?" he asked, as he leaned low over Sam, seeing the confirmation in the contorted face that the voice could not provide. "Not enough, says me!"

Tad touched the tip of his blade to the very centre of the wound. Then he applied pressure, just a little jab, so that the blade sank in through flesh to soft tissue, penetrating a fraction deeper than the cut he'd made, and Sam twitched some more, right down to his toes. "Is  _that_  more like it?" Tad enquired, watching his victim grimace and licking his lips in delight at the sight.

Still Sam failed to answer. Tad pressed harder, driving the blade in further.

Sam's eyes opened wider still, his breath caught in his throat, his hand clawed at the ground, his heart hammered in his chest.

"Shall we go deeper?" Tad asked.

Sam managed a desperate, tiny shake of his head, his eyes pleading for the torment to stop.

"Oh, but  _ **I**_ think I should." Tad leant on the knife, and it bit even deeper into Sam's side.

Sam's mouth moved wordlessly, trying to beg for mercy, cry for help, or do anything to change what was happening. His eyes sought Al, whose own were moist with repressed tears, All the hologram could offer in a gravelly voice was "Hang in there, Sam, please just hold on." Al was hammering on his handlink, still anxiously hoping to be given a way out of this for his enfeebled friend.

By now, more than a third of the blade's length had vanished into Sam's torso.

"Does that feel good to you, Kaz?" Tad tormented. "It sure feels good to me. And you know what would make it feel  _even better_?"

Sam's eyes were filled with raw terror as he wondered what was in store.

He didn't have long to wait to find out. Tad gripped the handle of the knife still tighter, and then jerked his wrist as if he were removing the screw top of a jar. The blade twisted viciously in Sam's side, ripping through the flesh like a laser through a Japanese Shoji sliding paper door. Again, Sam's whole body twitched in response to the torture, and he managed a small whimper of pain.

Tad twisted the knife back to its starting position, followed by a jerk of 90 degrees in the other direction, and then he drew it out a short distance, before pressing it back in still deeper. "Now isn't  **this**   _fun_?" he asked, as Sam's hitching breaths made his chest heave, which only served to pull on his side even more and intensify the agony.

'Oh God,' Sam thought desperately, 'Dear God, please help me.'

Sam looked to Al again, a look that seemed to say he was grateful his final moments would not be spent alone and friendless. A look that said 'This is goodbye.'

The hologram was pounding on his hand-link ferociously, and not liking what he read there, Al pounded some more, as if he could change the outcome by sheer brute force. The information that came back to him got worse by the second, Ziggy's dire predictions being underlined by those relayed to him from the newly discovered resident psychic. He  **had**  to change things, fast. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping his tears from coming forth and blinding him. If he gave in to them, he would be incapacitated.

In a state of sheer panic, he screamed, "Play dead, Sam. He won't give up 'til he's killed you. You gotta  **play**  dead  _now_ , or it's gonna be for real. You hear me, Sam?"

For one awful heart-rending moment, Al thought he was too late, and his friend really had been tortured to death. Then he caught the merest hint of a 'nod' from Sam's big toe, which he was fairly sure the thug wouldn't have spotted.

It wasn't much, but it was all he could manage, it would have to do. Totally exhausted by the effort, Sam passed out at last.


	15. Fourteen

 

**QLHQ**

Corporal Ralph Kincaid.

Verbena Beeks swore softly under her breath. How could she have forgotten about poor Rusty Kincaid?

Well to be fair, what with the whole Sammi-Jo thing blowing up, it was no small wonder she had put all her other patients to the back of her mind. But whereas the so-called dire problems that many of her clients brought to her were in truth pretty trivial in the grand scheme of things, Rusty's mental state was a different matter altogether. He had valid cause to need her help, and she had neglected him for far too long.

Handing Sammi-Jo's care over to Cassie Koulianos – what a godsend that woman was! – Verbena had been on her way to grab a quiet cup of coffee and a bite to eat in the canteen before retiring when she suddenly remembered Rusty. With a resigned sigh, she headed instead for the single male person's quarters to look in and see how he was doing.

She was weary, and though her professionalism was not in question, it was hard to leave your work 'at the office' as it were, when the patient hurting so much was a close friend. Thus her head was downcast as she entered the elevator to descend the two levels to Rusty's room, and she didn't immediately register the occupants already on board. She was too exhausted for idle banter, and in no mood to offer a free instant therapy session, as she was often expected to do. She leaned on the wall of the car with her eyes closed.

"Are you all right, Dr Beeks?" A soft male voice drifted to her awareness from somewhere around her waist level.

"Long day," she answered with a sigh, and then thought herself rude not to at least look at whoever had spoken kindly to her. She opened her eyes, and was surprised to see Corporal Matt Langley in a wheelchair, a male nurse standing behind.

"Corporal, out of the infirmary already?" she smiled at the young man. "I should be asking after you, not the other way around."

"Doc Koulianos signed my release papers about an hour ago." Matt grinned back at her, sheepishly. "I'm doing okay, all things considered."

Beeks looked at him with wonderment. Not so long ago he'd been fighting for his life, now he was acting like it was nothing. She resolved to watch over him closely. Patients who came to terms with their injuries as quickly as Langley seemed to have done sometimes had a backlash later.

What he said next surprised her still more.

"Can you do me a favor, Doc?"

"Name it."

"Are you gonna be talking to Rusty anytime soon?"

"I'm on my way there now as a matter of fact," she told him, a little uncomfortably.

"Can you convince him I don't hold this," he looked down at his damaged body, "against him? I've been trying to get a message to him, but he won't take my calls. He's beating himself up over this whole thing, and I guess I can see why he would, but he had no control over it, did he? That mercury poisoning made him crazy and he had no idea what he was doing, so how can it be his fault?"

"That's a very forgiving attitude, Corporal. Most men in your position would be understandably bitter."

"Please call me Matt," he requested, "and what's the point in being bitter? It won't change what happened. Doc K says given enough PT I should get back a fair bit of use in my fingers. I’m getting stronger every day, and though I know I’ll always have a limp, I’m not gonna be in this chair forever. I may never be back to full active duty, cos I probably won't be able to handle a weapon, but I can still contribute."

The elevator let out a ping and flung open its doors. The trio moved out together and headed down the corridor.

"There _has_ to be a way to make him talk to me, Dr Beeks," Matt looked up at her, his face radiating sincerity.

"I'll do what I can," she promised.

They continued in silence, each in their own thoughts, until they reached Matt's door. When Verbena turned to bid him a good night, he lifted his uninjured hand to her arm to delay her departure, his expression pensive.

"It's just an idea," he began.

'Bena looked at him with curiosity, and bade him go on.

"Well, Doc K says I'm gonna need a _lot_ of help, for a while at least during my convalescence, even though she agreed to let me escape from sickbay…"

Bena nodded. She knew enough from the young man's file to be aware that he had an aversion to hospitals that bordered on a profound phobia. Whilst he had desperately needed emergency admission, once he was more himself, his dread of being there would actually have hampered his recovery.

She felt it had been this factor which had contributed to the indecent haste of his discharge from Sandia Health Center, and now his rapid departure from the Project infirmary to which he'd been transferred, though she was sure that he would have regular physical therapy sessions booked for the rehab center at Sandia.

Matt soon confirmed her surmise.

"She's kindly leant me Ash here for a couple of days," he indicated the male nurse behind him, who flashed Bena a bright smile. "I'm gonna need more or less round the clock help though, and someone to drive me to my outpatient appointments. I was wondering…"

"If we could conscript Corporal Kincaid, since he is currently suspended from normal duties?" Bena finished for him. "I think that could be excellent therapy for both of you, Matt, if you're sure it wouldn't feel too awkward for you."

"More likely to feel awkward for Ralph," admitted Matt, "having to face me when he so obviously doesn't feel ready to. I think it's worth giving him the nudge, though, don't you, Doc?"

Bena felt it could be the best possible thing for Rusty, if they could only get him to agree. So much so, that she was wondering whether she could persuade Al to order it, if she had to. "I think it's an inspired idea, Matt!" she enthused. "Thank you."

Moments later, she was at Rusty's door. The two guards assigned to him had been reduced to one, since he was no longer considered a threat to the project, and only a limited threat to himself. Even that precaution was unlikely to remain for long. Bena nodded to the Corporal currently on duty, and then went inside.

Rusty stood from his bed when the psychiatrist entered. He wasn't sure he was altogether pleased to see her, but he had been raised with enough manners to acknowledge her presence, as a gentleman should. He indicated his chair, and bade her sit down.

"I've been thinking about what you said last time, Doc." He decided to take a pro-active approach.

"Good," replied Bena encouragingly, and then added somewhat cautiously, "and have you come to any conclusions?"

"I think maybe you were right about Patti. My cutting off all contact with her _is_ punishing her as much as me. It _should_ be **her** choice. I'm thinking maybe I'll call her in the morning, what do you reckon?"

Bena's spirits lifted several notches. This was quite a breakthrough. Rusty was finally looking outward again.

"I think that would be a very good idea, Rusty. Have you thought what you're going to say?"

"I've thought of little else for hours!" Rusty even managed a little smile. "I know I don't deserve her, and I wouldn't blame her after all I've done, and how I've treated her, if she turned round and told me I'd burned my bridges. Only now I've decided to open the door again as it were, I'm kinda terrified she'll do just that. I still love her, Doctor Beeks. I love her **so much** , and I need her and I want her back and I honestly don't know if I can _ever_ get over this whole mess if she isn't with me." Rusty paused at last, breathless. He had been pacing the floor, but now he sank back down on his bed and put his head in his hands.

Bena had been counseling Patti through this nightmare too. She knew for a fact how much the lady in question still loved her man, and wanted to help him. He had to hear it for himself in order to believe it though.

"Just tell her how you feel, Rusty, and leave the rest to Patti," she advised. "In the meantime, how would you feel about getting out of these four walls for a while?"

"How?" Rusty looked at her - caution, suspicion and hope in his expression in almost equal measure. Though he felt he deserved imprisonment, and his room was a far more comfortable cell than he had a right to, it was still somewhat claustrophobic, especially since it held reminders of the daemons that had plagued and harangued him into committing such heinous deeds.

Bena outlined the plan she and Matt Langley had devised for Rusty to help take care of him. She hoped that by pitching it as a way out of house arrest - which she was confident she could arrange - he would be more inclined to go for it. She needn't have worried; Rusty was all in favor of the arrangement. It seemed to him that helping Matt with his day-to-day needs was the least he could do, since it was his fault Matt needed help in the first place. Though it felt to Rusty like too lenient an act of contrition, it would serve as a place to start.

**San Francisco**

When Sam came to, he was no longer lying in the crumpled heap that Yamashita had tried to batter and skewer into oblivion. He was in a far worse position.

Al was exhorting him to make a greater effort, "It's okay now, he's gone, Sam, something scared him off, Tad's not gonna hurt you any more, you gotta try buddy…"

Sam wasn't sure what more he could do. He was unable to move, being fettered at ankles and wrists. Every muscle he could name, along with all those he'd forgotten he had, ached with a chronic myalgia. His head was pounding, making thinking difficult. Damaged ribs meant breathing was stressful. His injured knee was swollen and tender and his punctured side oozed blood and stung savagely.

What did Al want from him?

"You gotta stay awake, buddy. Don't fade out on me again. Ziggy says if you leave us now, we may not get you back."

"I…. Go…. _where_?" Dehydration was leaving his throat parched.

"Sleep, pal. You _mustn't_ go to sleep. Talk to me." Al was struck by a feeling of déja vu. It hadn't been so very long ago from his perspective that they'd been through this same routine, Sam in danger, trapped and freezing to death, and Al having to force his friend to stay awake in order to save his life. Damn, how he hated this 'cruel to be kind' stuff.

"Say… what?"

"Anything, just don't give up on me. Keep fighting it, Sam. **Wake up**."

Sam wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. He didn't like it where he was. Didn't like the way his pulverized body hurt. Didn't like the way his joints felt as if they were being torn apart; his pulse pounded in his temples. Just what was supposed to be so great about being awake?

But Al wanted conversation, so having been brought up to be obedient, especially to one's elders; he did as he was bid.

"Can't… ah…do… this… any… more, Al."

"You _have_ to. Hold on, Sam. We'll think of something." Al had to strain to catch his friend's words, even positioning himself so that their heads were level.

"No, don't… mean…." talking tired him - Sam pointed at his body with his chin to indicate his current predicament, 'though the movement of his head made him dizzy, "Any… of it. I'm too… old…tired…drained." His chest heaved with the effort of breathing, but he ploughed on in a raspy whisper.

"W-when…. last time…I … I went…uh… m-month without get-getting… punched or…or kicked, if not… s-shot or ah… stabbed?"

Al opened his mouth to reply, but no answer came to him.

Sam went on without waiting, "When did I… last g-get through…. a week without someone…or something… threatening me?"

His eyes held Al's, willing him to deny the accusations, knowing he could not.

"It's not f-fair, Al. All I'm… _made_ …to…do. It's too… much to…. expect of…. one man," he panted.

Al didn't even pretend to try and argue with that one. He'd never had a friend like Sam before in all his too-many-to-count years. His feelings for the younger man, though he found it hard to express them, were somewhere between paternal and fraternal. Had he ever discussed it with Verbena - which he never would - she could have told him that, subconsciously, he was trying to offer Sam the protection and support he'd been unable to give to his sister, Trudy.

So, instead, he paced and railed, "Its way _beyond_ unfair, Sam. I don't understand how you can do all you've done these past few years, and still it don't seem to be enough. You've been nothing short of a saint, and instead of sending you home where you belong, blaze of glory, trumpets sounding - God turns round and _punishes_ you like this." He spat the word contemptuously. "What happened with Keiko, that was _nothing_ to what those boys woulda done, _especially_ Tad. What they _did_ subject her to originally. Ziggy says Keiko's gonna be fine...” Al didn’t elaborate to point out that it would take a while. That she’d go through a rough patch during which her grades would drop and she’d have problems at home. Keeping her vow of silence meant becoming ‘sullen and withdrawn’ according to her mother. The only thing Sam needed to know was that she made it out the other side. That she stuck to her decision not to let the incident define her as a victim but instead counted her blessings that she’d been spared the alternative. This was what Al emphasized to Sam.

“She **knows** what you saved her from, Sam. _She_ wouldn't wish this on you, so why? Don't look to me for answers on this one, pal, 'cos it beats the Hell outa me." He rubbed his forehead in frustration, a feeling of helplessness overwhelming him.

Sam looked at his friend, horrified. He knew that Al's relationship with the Lord had been rocky at times, but this smacked of blasphemy, and Sam would have none of it. Though he knew he was far more sinner than saint, his self-pity and self-condemnation receded in an instant of private epiphany.

He let out a long sigh.

"No, Al. You're…. wrong. N-not… p-punished."

"What else would you call _this_?" countered Al, waving his arm to encompass Sam's dreadful position, "Seems like a damned cruel punishment to me. In fact it gives the term 'cruel and unusual punishment' a whole new meaning from where I'm standing! And for what? What the hell else could you have done? Nothing!"

Al had been praying for all he was worth during the time Tad had been hauling Sam up onto the fence and restraining him there, exactly as Cassie had foretold. He'd looked for a miracle to save his friend, and finding none, he was once more feeling his faith waiver a little. He knew, thanks to Sam, that prayers were often answered in strange ways, and not always at once, but desperation and frustration were making him impatient. He needed someone to rail at, and just now, the Almighty was a convenient target.

Sam didn't reply at once, and Al thought he'd conceded the point. How could he refute it? Yet refute it he did.

"Tested." Sam declared suddenly, "Not… punished; …tested."

"What _more_ do you have to do to prove yourself?" Al was outraged on his friend's behalf, since Sam seemed unwilling to pursue the injustice himself.

"If He wants… my life, I'll _gladly_ give it, Al. He knows that. I'd have…. preferred it to uh be in some… more m-meaningful way… but it's not…. for me… to decide. If He chooses to…. take me now, then its t-to…. serve His purpose, and I'll… not q-question it. Nor should you." A huge dry lump in his throat made it hurt to swallow.

"The blood rush to your head must've addled your brains, pal. What 'purpose' could _possibly_ be served by having you die like this, Sam? You may be stretched out onto a fence with barbed wire, not nailed to a wooden cross, but the inverted crucifixion pose is still deliberate; I heard Tad talking to himself, saying it was a message to others. He called you a traitor, a Judas. _You_ , of all people! I _won't_ accept it, Sam. I _can't_."

The Admiral stood and paced back and forth again, angry, frustrated and worried sick.

'Judas hanged himself,' Sam mentally corrected his friend, 'it was St Peter who was crucified head-down.' However, he had neither the strength nor the will to start a theological debate, and Tad had made a fairly common mistake, judging by his comments. He certainly wasn't trying to make a martyr out of Kaz.

Sam knew that Al knew better, but religious studies were far from his mind right now.

"Hasn't this whole Leaping business been enough of a test? You haven't let Him down once, that I can see. You haven't let _anyone_ down."

Sam didn't believe he could lay claim to that assessment: in addition to despoiling Keiko, and stabbing Peng, he seemed to remember among others a brother dying in his arms; a sheriff, and two kidnappers, burning to death; a dear friend left captive…

He looked at Al, and then closed his eyes to compose himself before beginning to pray haltingly:

" _Our Father,_

_Who… Art… in Heaven,_

_Hallowed be… Thy Name._

_Thy Kingdom… come,_

**_Thy_ ** _Will be done… "_

He paused, both for breath and for emphasis,

"… _.On Earth… as it is… in Heaven._

_Give us this day…_

_Our d-daily bread,_

_And for-give…forgive us our… argh…tres-passes_

_As we… forgive those…. who trespass against us._

_L-lead us…n-not into…temptation_

_But…deliver…us…from ah…ev-vil…_

_For Thine… is the… Kingdom,_

_The P-Power and the Glory_

_For ever and ever_

_Amen."_

Al still wasn't convinced, yet he was grateful for anything that kept Sam from slipping into a coma from which he was unlikely to awaken.

The effort exhausted Sam, and he was left fighting for breath again, yet somehow calmer.

Al stared at him, wide-eyed with amazement. How could Sam accept this so placidly?

For Sam, acceptance was the easy bit. He'd have slipped quietly and gently into his Maker's arms in a thready heartbeat, and been glad of the release from the excruciating pain that seemed to permeate every single cell of his anatomy. The hard part was continuing the struggle to stay awake; to breathe; to live. He didn't need Ziggy to predict the odds; his chances were so slim as to be two-dimensional. There was no way he was ever getting _himself_ out of this mess, and precious little hope of anyone else finding him in this deserted spot.

Sam had so many things he wanted to tell Al, to apologize for, to thank him for, to tell him not to blame himself that it had ended this way. He didn't know where to start and he didn't know how much he could get past his cracked lips and constricted throat.

"Al, I…" As the remaining light was fading from the cloudy sky with the gathering dusk, so it was fading in Sam's eyes.

**QLHQ**

It hadn't taken long for Sammi-Jo to snatch a quick shower and dress, and while her face was still pale, the puffiness of long crying had faded. Donna had busied herself while S-J showered in preparing a snack they could eat as they walked, insisting that she wasn't going to have Sammi-Jo faint in the corridor through lack of food. Though she still had no appetite, S-J took it and ate obediently if unenthusiastically.

Now in the Control Room, Drs Elysee and Fuller clung to each other unashamedly. They'd arrived in time to see David frowning over Sam's vital signs again as he succumbed to the first barbaric beating of the Jump-Out.

"Do _all_ Sam's Leaps involve him being beaten to the brink of death?" David asked incredulously, knowing now what the Leaper had endured in his stead at the hands of the Ruggieros.

"Thankfully, no," Donna replied. "Though recently it sure feels like it."

Hearts in mouths, Donna and Sammi-Jo had followed Tad's subsequent torture of the Leaper, and were more than alarmed at the position Sam had been left in on the fence. Ziggy was predicting pitifully slim odds for his survival, and in truth the women couldn't see any way that he could escape this predicament.

Donna had never really stopped loving Sam; she'd just not _liked_ him for a while, her disapproval of what he'd done making her question how well she truly knew her husband. What she knew now was that he _didn't_ deserve to die like this. Nobody did. She didn't want him to die - she wanted him home.

As much as Sammi-Jo thought she'd distanced herself from Dr Beckett in light of his actions, she couldn't deny the fact that the thought of losing him now was more than she could bear. If Al were to ask her at this precise moment if she loved her biological father, the answer would have been an unequivocal yes.

Would she ever get the chance to tell him that to his face? As the moments ticked by, it looked more and more unlikely, and the thought saddened her beyond belief.

Then her own words came back to her photographic memory again as in Abigail's hospital room, when as a child she'd expressed that same desire to speak the words, though to Will Kinman, the man she had then assumed to be her father.

_"I wanna meet my daddy. I wanna tell him..."_

_"Tell him what?" Sam Larry Stanton had asked, earnestly._

_"Just that I love him... but he knows... My grandma Fuller says he knows and she knows everything!"_

Did Sam know she loved him? At this moment, so fragile and close to death, it would be amazing if he remembered his own name, let alone hers.

Yet back then he had told her, _"Sammie-Jo Fuller, I love you, and I want you to know that everything's going to be okay!"_

She had to believe that somewhere deep in his heart, he remembered, and knew he was loved, and loved in return. If only that love were strong enough to keep him safe now, if only Whoever was leaping Sam through time would make it all okay once more.

"Father, forgive him," she found herself whispering fervently, her hands clasped together, then softer still, "father, I forgive you, please live, please come back to me."


	16. Fifteen

 

 

 

 

**San Francisco**

Suddenly a blinding light assaulted Sam's optic nerves. 'This is it,' he thought, 'a corridor of light to lead me to the next world, just like in the movies.'

Only then he fancied he heard the sound of tires slipping on gravel, of a car scudding to a halt just in front of him. 'I'm delirious,' he told himself, 'seeing and hearing things. It won't be long now.'

Al's voice came to Sam from what seemed like very far away. He sounded excited. Perhaps Sam was going to Leap, maybe he would get to see Home for one brief moment before he died. The thought brought him immeasurable comfort.

"Jeez, what  _have_  they done to you?"

The voice was unfamiliar, as were the shoes, highly polished black shoes, with crisp-creased dark blue trousers above. Sam dare not try to raise his head to follow the form up, to see who it was, but at least it wasn't Tad. He didn't need to look – the figure crouched down, assessing the situation, looking for a sign that the boy was still alive. As he did so, Sam realized he was wearing a police officer's uniform; the face, when it drew level with his own, was that of a Japanese man in his late twenties. His brow was lined with concern, as he felt Sam's neck for a pulse.

He studied Sam's restraints, by the light of his headlamps, and tried to untwist the barbed wire holding Sam's left wrist. It cut the newcomer's finger, and dug deeper into Sam's skin, making him whimper.

"How do I get you down, now?" The policeman wondered aloud, then got back to his feet and headed for his car.

"Don't you leave him!" yelled Al, chasing after him as if he could prevent the desertion. "Don't you  _dare_  leave him here!"

Sam merely sighed feebly.

They need not have worried. The resourceful officer popped the trunk of his patrol car, and removed a pair of bolt cutters. Putting on his gloves, he proceeded to work carefully at the sharp bonds, and the fence they were attached to, taking his time so as not to cause further injury to either of them. After what seemed like an eternity, the wire gave way and Sam's arm swung downward with a jolt, gravity having nothing further to counter its inexorable force.

The sudden movement, and shift in weight distribution, brought bone deep agony to strained muscles no longer benumbed. Sam cried out weakly, and the officer rushed to support his frame until the waves of pain subsided. Blood began spurting from his wrist, the vein having been opened by the savage barbs, making Sam feel faint.

The policeman cast about him and spotted Sam's slashed T-shirt on the ground near his foot. Grabbing it, he shook it hard to remove the dust, and then ripped a strip from it, binding it tightly round the wound.

"It may not be the most sanitary bandage, but I figure the risk of infection is better than letting you bleed to death."

Doctor Beckett concurred with his diagnosis, by way of an "Mm-hmm", wincing as the binding was applied.

"Sorry, kid, but there's no easy way to do this. I'll be as gentle as I can, but I can't do much to help you while you're up there. I need to get you down as quick as I can." He moved toward Sam's tethered right wrist.

Sam let eye contact convey the message that he understood; yet he commanded, "W-wait." Sam halted him in his tracks by the imperative in his husky tone.

The officer looked puzzled.

"T-think…ahead…" Sam begged him. "F-feet."

Then the policeman looked up, and Al's eyes followed, and they knew what Sam was thinking. Once his arms were both unfettered, all Sam's weight would be pulling suddenly and sharply on his ankles, maybe to the point of breaking them. And when  _they_  were freed, it would be almost impossible to prevent him from tumbling to the ground, breaking who knew what other bones in the process. Yet the alternative was to stay and die. Suddenly, that was no longer the preferred option.

"Hang on, I have an idea," announced his rescuer, not intending any pun. He explained briefly, promising to be swift. Meantime he helped Sam to affect a weak hold on the fence with his freed hand, in a less strained posture than before, distributing the load of his almost dead-weight body a little more evenly, though it took every ounce of concentration and more to keep Sam there.

Sam couldn't help feeling his grip on the fence was about as tenuous as the grip he had on life itself at this point. Everything felt like it was just too much of an effort. Yet he persevered.

True to his word, the officer soon returned dragging a couple of packing cases from the nearest warehouse, where they had been curiously arranged in three sides of a rough square around the doorway, and before they knew it, he'd fetched a couple more.

Then he eased one under the boy's shoulders, to take the strain. It pulled on Sam's tethered arm, but all in all, it was considerably more comfortable than before. Satisfied, Sam's liberator set to work on the second wire.

He introduced himself as Seishiro Kobayashi, and ascertained Sam's identity as Kazuo Sakaguchi, taking up Al's assertion that the boy should not allow himself the luxury of sleep until the danger of shock induced coma could be eliminated.

He spoke soothingly all the time he worked, and bade Sam hold on just a short while longer promising that the worst was over.

Sam felt it unfair to have these two ganging up to bully him when he was so defenseless, but he knew in his heart it was for his own sake.

Rather than indulging in idle conversation, the policeman's training led him to go straight to the heart of the matter.

"Do you have  _any_  idea who did this to you, Kazuo?"

"Tell him, Sam," urged Al. "Name and Shame. Ca – uh, Ziggy says you have to put a stop to Tad's sadism or he'll end up torturing and killing others. He's gonna make a career of it - body count of seventeen when he's finally stopped in '93, but that's only the ones they could  ** _prove_**. Chances are he was responsible for a heck of a lot more than that, including his foster father."

'There's the purpose, then,' decided Sam, 'the reason I didn't Leap.'

And Heaven knew there was no way he would wish this sort of experience on another living soul. Maybe it would be worth all the agony, if he could be sure he'd be sparing all those others a cruel fate.

"T-Tadayuki Yamashita. He's… in… C-cobra… gang."

" _Why_?" the question was largely rhetorical. Kobayashi had seen some brutal things on the force, wives and children beaten by drunken husbands and fathers, mugging victims – dreadful crimes, which each time appeared to be the worst imaginable. He knew he would never become hardened to it, but he thought he had a measure of the degree of evil that men do to one another. This was something else, however. How anyone could inflict such severe and savage treatment on a young boy like this was beyond him.

Sam had no real answer for him, either. The one provided for him by the thug himself was both too lengthy to repeat in his present condition, and too crazy to be acceptable as a justification. As if there could be  _any_  justification for Tadayuki's actions. "Hate crime, I g-guess," Sam decided, "he…  _Hates_ …me!"

Sam's cheeks felt engorged from his too long inversion. Now as he was being jostled by the attempt to free him, they seemed to flush further and his whole face felt hot and tingly. He couldn't focus. He blinked slowly.

"Hang in there, buddy, stay with us," Al encouraged; his hands tightly clasped together round the hand-link.

Eventually, the second wire yielded. The movement still made the wire bite into the flesh of Sam's ankles somewhat, and sent savage pains shooting through his side. It had also sent razor-sharp pains searing through his chest, making him gasp, but it could have been far worse. As promised, the jarring was less severe this time.

Again Seishiro bound the resulting wound with a strip of linen from the T-shirt.

Now both arms were free, Kobayashi swiftly put a second crate next to the first, and slipped a third on top between them, making a broad step up, and a firmer support for the dangling figure. Climbing on the edge of the lower, he eased Sam's frame to rest more squarely on the higher one, minimizing his discomfort.

Seishiro stood beside the upturned form and turned his attention to the last wire, "Brace yourself, kid,  _Gambatte_."

Sam hung there, by no means comfortable, plagued by muscle cramps in the backs of his legs, hyperventilating, and having to call on the last traces of his will power to keep from passing out, but nonetheless comparatively stable. "Ready," he breathed softly.

Seishiro's brilliant piece of block building ingenuity meant that he did not have to work on the last restraint at arms length. It proved less recalcitrant than its fellows, and before long, Sam's feet were free.

" _Yatta!_ " Without the rest of the body to worry about, Kobayashi was able to grab Sam's newly unfettered legs, and lower him gently, avoiding the expected trauma to his already tortured frame. Once more, Kobayashi bound his wounds with strips of white cloth, though those on his wrists were already streaked a delicate shade of pink. The rest of the t-shirt he wadded up and pressed against Sam's gaping side wound, tying it on around his waist by removing the belt from the boy's jeans. He could see the faux leather digging into bruised flesh, and recognized the pain it caused, but still the lad exhorted him faintly, "Tigh-ter." The boy's instinct was good; pressure was his best friend in the battle against blood loss. He fastened the belt a notch or two tighter, eliciting a gasp from the unfortunate boy.

Sam managed to whisper a barely audible "Th-thanks." which his rescuer acknowledged with a sympathetic smile, as he moved to support the boy's torso before he slipped off the pyramid.

They rested thus for a few moments, with Seishiro cradling Sam's trembling body, and reassuring him; "It's okay, I've got you kid, you're safe now".

The last crepuscular rays of the setting sun streaked down through a long thin gap in the clouds and bathed them in its gentle golden light, making a curious tableau, like a religious painting depicting God's love shining down upon them.

By degrees, Sam's hero was able to ease him down and into the backseat of the patrol car. His jacket became a pillow, and a woolen plaid blanket was retrieved from the trunk to cover him. It was only when he was enveloped in its warm embrace that Sam appreciated how cold he had been out in the chill evening air. He began to shiver, and his teeth chattered. 'Add exposure to the list,' he thought. Now that he was no longer suspended upside down, the blood drained from his head, leaving him decidedly woozy.

Sam crossed his arms and hugged himself close; for warmth; to support his aching ribs, and to thrust his hands into his armpits, where the pressure he was able to exert helped to slow the blood loss from his leaking wrists.

With a gentle but reassuring pat on the shoulder, Seishiro closed the door and got into the driver's seat. Again there was the sound of tires skidding on gravel as he took off, simultaneously radioing in a report of his extraordinary find, ordering that the hospital be notified a patient was approaching in need of urgent attention, and posting an All Points Bulletin on the perpetrator.

Sam was barely conscious and fading fast.

"So…. tired." he breathed, eyelids drooping.

"I know, but stay with me, kid. Don't you die on me now," commanded the officer. "Don't you  _dare_  die on me. Listen, it's a fifteen-minute drive to the nearest hospital, but I reckon I can get you there in seven. It may not be the smoothest ride, but I'll try to keep it as gentle as I can for you. Just seven more minutes, Kazuo, then you can rest all you like, I promise, okay?"

Seishiro felt he had already asked far too much of the boy, who'd shown amazing courage and fortitude for one so young. He hated having to prolong his suffering in this way, but he had seen other beating victims slip away with far milder injuries than Kazuo had endured. The phrase 'beaten to within an inch of his life' seemed to have been coined for this very situation; only he'd have put it at more like a millimeter. Seishiro was taking no chances.

" _It-Itai_ " Sam complained, slipping into Japanese, a sob caught by tightened throat muscles.

"I bet it hurts. Poor kid. But you gotta hold on, just a little longer. You're doing great, Kaz, just hang in there a few more minutes. You can do that, can't you?"

Sam's only reply was a series of shallow shuddering breaths.

"You are  _not_  gonna die on my shift, you hear me?"

'How long does your shift last?' fretted Al, who appeared to be perched in the rear well of the car, adding his own ten cents to the concern.

"You're not  _meant_ to die tonight," Seishiro informed him suddenly,"  _Somebody_  wants you to live."

"Huh?" it was not much of a response, but it was better than nothing.

"Nah, you wouldn't believe me if I told you. Hey, I'm not sure I believe it myself."

"Try… me," Sam breathed hoarsely, with tremendous effort, "I need…. dis-traction… from… ah… p-pain."

"Well, okay, here goes. I don't normally patrol that far into the derelict area, it's not part of my beat, so it's a miracle I found you at all. And I  _mean_  a  **miracle**. Not that I'd say I was a particularly religious person. Oh, I guess if I was asked I'd call myself a Christian, but not with any real conviction, if you know what I mean?"

"Uh-huh."

"So, having said that, I've been struggling to find a rational explanation as to how I came to find you, but I don't think there is one." He glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye, as if still unable to believe that he was really there.

"Go… on," breathed Sam faintly. He needed to be kept awake, but more than that, his curiosity was piqued. Al, too, was leaning forward; hanging on the officer's every word.

"It was a fairly uneventful shift, for the most part. A couple of domestics, hold up at a grocery store, the usual stuff. My partner wasn't feeling too good, so the Captain told him he needn't come back in just to sign out, since we pass right by his house. I'd just dropped him off and was taking a slow drive back to the station, looking out for drunks, druggies and hookers as you do."

"At every opportunity," joked Al automatically, with a wicked gleam in his eye. He cast an expectant eye at Sam, hoping his levity would rouse his friend, but Sam didn't respond with so much as a grimace.

"Anyway, on the main road about half a mile from the old industrial estate, the car starts playing up. Loss of power, slowing down, unresponsive, spluttering, like it's not getting enough gas to the engine, you know?"

"Mm-hmm" Sam continued to be economical with his speech.

"Naturally, I pulled over and popped the hood to have a look. Checked the whole thing over – couldn't find a darn thing wrong. So I get back in and turn it over, it purrs sweet as a nut. I'm about to drive off with a 'one of those things' kinda shrug, when I could swear I hear a voice. A soft, female voice whispers to me:

" _Go and look behind the old warehouses_." I look all around in every direction as far as the eye can see, but there's not another soul in sight."

Sam and Al exchanged confused glances. Seishiro caught the boy's bemused look in his peripheral vision, and gave a brief laugh.

"Exactly! What would  _you_  have thought? What would anyone have done? I shook my head, thinking I was tired and hearing things, and drove on, glad that I'd soon be off duty and home to my bed."

Sam let out a wistful sigh at the mention of bed.

"Not much longer now, Kaz," Seishiro interrupted his narrative to reassure his passenger, "we're making good time. You stay with me now, okay?"

Sam whispered "Tr-rying" and was rewarded with a beep from Ziggy and a reassuring smile from Al. 'The odds must be improving.' He dared to hope.

Seishiro took up his story once more.

"I'd not gone above a quarter mile when the car cuts out again. I pull over; take another look. Still can't find anything. I'm showing half a tank so I'm not low on gas. At this point, I'm starting to wonder if I'm about to be abducted by aliens! This time my hand is no sooner on the door handle than the voice comes again:

" _Your brother needs you_."

"Again, there's no one around. Besides, I don't  _have_  a brother, just a big sister who's gone back to Japan to live with her husband and three kids."

The car hit a bump and a guttural wheeze escaped Sam's lips.

"Easy, Kaz. Soon, just be brave a little longer."

Sam swallowed with difficulty, and asked, "Why…. you…. come?"

"I don't think I really had a choice. I tried to drive off again. I was about to call in sick myself. Thought I was going crazy; hearing voices."

Sam had been down  _that_  road more times than he cared not to be able to remember.

"The car wouldn't cooperate. And the beautiful voice kept insisting. ' _Your brother needs you. Go and search the fence.'_  In the end I figured I'd best take a look."

"Lucky…. for…. me…. you…. did" Sam's husky yet thin voice was full of awe. He knew it hadn't been Al's doing this time. Seishiro didn't have a police dog for a partner. No way could Al's be described as a soft beautiful female voice, and besides, he'd not left Sam's side throughout. 'Ziggy?' he wondered briefly, but could not see how a parallel hybrid computer could communicate with someone not attuned to her gauge circuits. This guy was not mad, under five, or an animal. He should have been unreachable. And if he'd shared brainwave patterns with the Leaper, like Michael Blake, he'd have seen Al now, which clearly he couldn't.

"I'm sure glad I finally listened, kid. I'd never have forgiven myself if I'd found out later that you'd died there so horribly and I could've saved you. I only wish I'd acted sooner, so you'd suffered less." He paused, as if afraid to put his next thought into words. "It could  _only_ have been the voice of an angel, couldn't it?" he was talking to himself more than to Sam. He was still not sure he believed it, but as he said, there was no other logical explanation. "So you see, you're not  _allowed_  to die. You've  _got_  to make it." He took a deep breath, trying yet to deny the enormity of what he was suggesting: "Or you'll lay such a guilt trip on me that I'll never get over it!"

Sam just looked at Al, a sudden sense of peace in his heart.

"Tested," he murmured, "Praise God, I guess… I passed!"

 

**Outside the hospital**

"It's all over, Kaz." Seishiro announced suddenly. "We've arrived. You'll be okay, now." He brought the patrol car to a gentle halt outside the main doors to ER. Immediately, both white-coated and uniformed figures rushed out with a gurney.

Normally, the first order of business was to check the patient over to ascertain the extent of his injuries. Pulling back the blanket, they didn't know where to start. He looked so dreadful that one of them actually gasped aloud. They were almost afraid to touch him for fear they would injure him further, or at least cause him great suffering.

"Go easy." Seishiro commanded, getting out and crouching down protectively near Kaz's head, so that he could see a friendly face. "The lad's been through more than enough already." He gave them a run down on the circumstances in which he had found the teenager.

Sam accepted meekly the precautionary application of a surgical collar. He was less keen on being poked and prodded to discover if he had any broken bones. Even the negligible movements they subjected him to caused him to cough, and a trickle of blood escaped the side of his mouth.

"We need to get you out of the car, son." Stated the medic crouching next to Kobayashi, with the profession's flair for the obvious. "So we have to slide you onto this spinal board to transfer you to the gurney." as he talked, he extricated Sam's lead-weight arms from where they were welded to his armpits, so he could put in an IV line. Restore fluids - minimize shock. Only the movement had caused enough shock of itself; Sam's head swam, and he was having palpitations.

Seeing the freed wrists start to leak anew, the doc ordered gauze pads and pressure, which were instantly forthcoming. "You may feel some discomfort when we move you. Do you understand?"

'Well, duh,' thought Sam, 'what's not to understand? It's not exactly rocket science.' But he merely muttered "Uh-huh." Knowing that 'some discomfort' was likely to translate to 'hurt like Hell' his expression became one of grim determination.

The paramedics arranged themselves in both doorframes, as best they could, given the confines of the vehicle. Seishiro insisted on taking point, supporting Sam's head as they coordinated the shift in position that would allow them to extricate him from the car.

"On the count of three; one, two, three lift!"

It was not much in the way of a move, just a few inches, and a re-orientation from his side to his back, and it was executed with a skill and precision calculated to minimize any adverse effects, but it was more than enough to send fresh waves of pain washing over Sam's whole body.

It was the last straw. Nobody was insisting he had to stay awake anymore, and the strain had sapped the last vestiges of his already depleted strength. He was totally, utterly, completely exhausted. With a brief shudder, a faint moan and a momentary eye contact with his champion, which conveyed volumes of gratitude, Samuel John Beckett alias Kazuo Sakaguchi slipped into blissful unconsciousness.

 

**Sam's hospital room**

It was full daylight when Sam next awoke. He had no idea what day it was, but he remembered who and where he was, and how he came to be there.

"Hi, there!"

Sam turned his head to see Officer Seishiro Kobayashi sitting next to his bed. Al was standing by his left shoulder. He smiled at them both.

"Hi, yourself. Is this an official visit?" Sam was pleased, but surprised, to see his savior.

"Who says I'm on duty?" rejoined Seishiro. "Can't I just drop in to see how you're doing?"

"I'm doing fine, thanks to you," replied Sam, and realized that he meant it. Most of the pain had faded to comparatively trifling proportions. He still felt very tired and rather sore in all sorts of places, and he didn't see too well out of a swollen black eye, but there was nothing he couldn't handle.

'You sure look a lot brighter than when I first saw you, and no mistake."

"Guess I must have slept it off for about a week, huh?" Sam figured it would have taken at least that long for his condition to feel improved so much.

"Heck no; I only brought you in last night!"

Sam looked at him incredulously.

' _By His stripes ye are healed'_ whispered a voice inside his head, and suddenly he felt sure his soul was on the mend too.

"It's true, Sam," confirmed Al, equally amazed and delighted at the marked improvement in his friend. "You've been here a tad over seventeen hours, that's all."

Sam frowned and sucked in a sharp breath. Al squirmed, "Sorry, pal, poor choice of words."

The word stirred a thought in Sam though. When things appeared too good to be true, they usually were.

Sam was reminded again of being in hospital not so many leaps ago after a beating, and having been tossed about in a cement mixer. The aftermath of  _that_  experience had been agonizingly painful for a very long time, exacerbated by a further beating from Ruggiero in the hospital itself, when he'd been so weak and fragile he still wasn't sure  _how_  he'd survived. He was suddenly afraid his current situation was going to be a replay of that scenario - hadn't there been a cop there when he woke up that time too? - but that this time for some reason he was being given more strength to deal with it. Did that mean the impending trial was to be even tougher than that last one? Sam hoped not - this Leap had been more than tough enough already.

Al was watching him closely; aware by his changing expression that something was worrying the Leaper.

"You  _sure_  you're feeling okay, buddy?"

"That angel must be working overtime. I'll be back on my feet in no time," Sam saw his opening to ask the question that was nagging at him, despite the reassurance, "as long as Yamashita doesn't turn up to take care of unfinished business."

The Observer consulted his hand link frantically. Why hadn't  **he**  anticipated that possibility? He also remembered only too well that horrific hospital encounter, and what it had cost Sam in terms of pain beyond endurance. For Sam's sake, he desperately hoped that there would not be an encore. Despite Sam's assurances as to how much better he was feeling this time round, he still looked pale from loss of blood, and Al wasn't sure how far the euphoria could be attributed to the liberal doses of pain relief in his drip-tube.

Seishiro fielded the question while Al was still checking in.

"You don't have to worry about him, Kazuo," he reassured the young man. "He's already in custody, and once the judge hears our combined testimonies, I reckon they'll lock him up and throw away the key!"

Sam breathed a sigh of relief, but still shot Al a look that asked: 'Make sure there are no nasty surprises looming.' Bad guys had an unfortunate habit of breaking  _out_  of jail and going after the one who'd 'squealed' on them - as David Beckett had recently discovered.

Al read the dancing screen and gave a cautious reassurance. Ziggy had no information that suggested Sam was going to have fight Yamashita again. Of course, Ziggy didn't always  _have_  all the information to make accurate predictions, but then Al wasn't about to emphasize that. Sam processed the information, and began to calculate what else might need to be done.

"What if I decide  **not**  to press charges?" asked Sam at last, eliciting shocked expressions from both his companions.

" **What?** " demanded Al, vociferously.

" _Wakarimasen_ ," countered Seishiro, somewhat calmer but just as incredulous, "You needn't be afraid, Kaz. I promise you'll be protected. I'll make it a personal priority to see that neither Yamashita nor any of his gang lay one finger on you."

"Thanks. Thanks  _again_ , Officer Kobayashi, I'm sure I'm in very safe hands, but it's not that I'm scared. I'm just not sure that long term confinement is the best way to deal with Tadayuki." He bestowed upon Al a knowing look, which Al knew better than to argue with. Sam had his white hat on again, out to save the world, even the scum in it.

"Call me Shiro," put in the policeman, "but I still don't understand. You're surely not suggesting we let him get away scot-free after what he's done to you?"

"It's not as simple as that." With Sam, it never was. "For myself, I prayed and my prayer was answered. So I figure I have to fulfill my end of the bargain. 'Forgive us  _our_  trespasses  _as we forgive those who trespass against us_.' Not exactly turning the other cheek, but yes, I can forgive what he did to me. I'm not interested in revenge or retribution or anything like that. What he might do to someone else is another matter entirely, and he must be stopped, for their sakes  _and_  for his."

"So, he should be behind bars," insisted Al. Even knowing Sam as well as he did, he found it hard to swallow this. Maybe the Leaper was not so well recovered as they thought.

"I'm just worried that prison might make him worse, I guess. And then what happens when he finally gets out?" Al took his cue and consulted his crystal ball, but Ziggy was less than forthcoming, other than to say prison was unlikely to rehabilitate Tad.

"We're too far off the original history for accurate predictions, Sam. Ziggy says you're confusing the time line just by  _having_  this conversation, so I hope you know what you're saying." Al was so nervous he wasn't even trying to hide the fact.

"What  _are_  you suggesting, Kaz?" asked Seishiro.

Sam considered for a moment, whether looking for an answer or just how to express it they weren't sure. In fact, Sam was wondering if Tad was beyond redemption. He decided that  _nobody_  was. "Get him into therapy. Maybe a good psychotherapist could help him to face up to his past, and what it has driven him to. Let him see that there could be a better future for him if he chose a different way to deal with his emotions."

Al's jaw dropped, leaving him speechless. Altruistic Sam strikes again.

Unbelievable.

Seishiro stared at him, equally amazed but for different reasons, "Well now, Kazuo Sakaguchi, you never cease to amaze me my young friend. There's something more to you than meets the eye, isn't there?"

Al almost choked, though he confirmed, through Ziggy, that this course of action would indeed save a good many lives.

Sam merely smiled, "God moves in mysterious ways," he quoted, and Leaped.

 


	17. Epilogue

 

I'm dead. I must be. I've died and gone to Hell after all.

I am bleeding!

The very first thing I am fully aware of as the haze of the leaping process dissipates is that I am bleeding.

And panicking.

Pain. Intense pain.

Pull yourself together, Sam and work out what's going on.

Could it be that the pain from Jumping Out and Tad's torture has followed me this time? Maybe I _haven't_ been forgiven after all. Is this to be my punishment for falling from grace? To carry the pain from that Leap to the next and on forevermore?

How can I function like this? The pain is so bad, I can barely think, barely breathe.

Fighting to control the urge to hyperventilate, I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Think calm thoughts. Think calm thoughts.

It doesn't help much.

Where am I?

Opening my eyes again, squinting at the brightness of the light, I concentrate on looking at my surroundings. At least I am alone, and can take time to take stock.

I am in a bathroom, sitting on a toilet.

Great! What an inauspicious way to start a Leap!

Alarm floods through me again as I realize that the bleeding I felt is coming from deep within me, and trickling down the bowl.

Oh, my God! What's happening to me?

Suddenly, I bend forward, clutching my abdomen.

My body is creased up with the most appalling cramps, right down both sides along by my hips, and joining up across the front, low down, and then beyond, penetrating deep inside me.

More than that, I ache all over. Every muscle, every joint hurts, like a really bad case of the flu, only much, oh _so_ much worse.

My head is spinning and I can't think straight.

Oh, God, it hurts!

And the blood.

I think I am dying.

I think I wish I were dead.

I think I'm in Hell.

" _Aaaallllllllllll!_ " I shriek in terror, as stinging tears spring unbidden from my eyes.

**Meanwhile...**

_I'm dead._

_That's it, I'm dead._

_I must have died and gone to Heaven._

_Either that or I fainted in the bathroom and hit my head on the sink again, and this is some kind of dream._

_It certainly isn't real._

_For one thing, I have no idea where I am._

_The room is almost empty, but for a bed/table thing in the middle, and the walls are blue, and everywhere is sterile looking._

_Is this the Waiting Room where I get booked into Heaven and collect my Angel Wings?_

_The biggest clue, though, is the pain._

_As in -_ hello _! **There isn't any**!_

_Just moments ago the pain was so bad…_

_But now…_

_I feel fine._

_No._

_I feel great!_

_I feel better than I can remember feeling in oh, so many months._

_I feel like running and dancing and…_

_And I do._

_I run round and round the room, faster and faster, until I collapse, breathless, and laugh because I could._

_Within minutes I feel fine again._

_Amazing!_

_So I dance._

_I dance slowly and then I dance fast. I twist and twirl and spin and I giggle and laugh out load._

_This is wonderful!_

" _Woooo-hoooo!" I whoop for joy._

_I have so much energy!_

_I turn cartwheel after cartwheel, round the room again._

_WOW, this is sooooooooooo cool!_

_Who'd have thought that being dead could make me feel so_ alive

_Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh boy, oh boy, oh boyyyyyyyyy!_


	18. Further notes

This story, like  _High Hopes_ , was started some 10-12 years ago, but put on hold.

My thanks must go yet again to Jennie, whose wisdom and knowledge of things Trans Atlantic has once more proved invaluable to a humble Brit trying to write about a couple of American heroes, and who is the most thorough proof reader imaginable.

In addition, I must thank Helen G, for beta reading and providing some valuable insights into how the story could be improved.

Without these two ladies & my other regular betas the story would have come up short. Any remaining failings are solely mine.

The characters of Phillip Samuel Mililani, and his three children – Daniel, Alex and Candace – are creations of the Virtual Seasons series of Quantum Leap, and as such are copyrighted to them, but are used with kind permission of the site administrator and co-creator, MJ Cogburn.

Although their history with Abigail Fuller follows a slightly different path in that alternate – post Mirror Image – universe, I have assumed for the purposes of this story that many of the events described in the Virtual Seasons episodes played out in a similar, though not identical, way in my pre-Mirror Image universe.

The character of Dr Cassandra Koulianos is in essence one I created around the age of ten. She was always a doctor, always psychic, and though naturally not always in the realm of Quantum Leap, she always had a link with time travel, though the nature of that link varied. I think she was just waiting for this story to make her official debut.

The scene at the end with Sam on the fence was sparked by a news bulletin many years ago about a teenage boy found murdered in this way by school bullies. No insult is intended to the memory or family of this unfortunate young man.

The details of the gang initiation known as "Jumping In" and the corresponding "Jumping out" ceremony to leave a gang were brought to me via an episode of the reality TV show "COPS". Very few people are able to survive the Jump Out, which is in part why the gangs are able to exert such power over their impressionable young members.

I know that the subject matter will upset and anger many readers, who will protest as Donna and Sammi Jo did that our hero Sam could  **never**  do such a thing. This was really how the story was born, as I was discussing with a friend what would be the worst possible thing he could be  _made_  to do, and yet still have it be a 'for the best' action that he would therefore ultimately go through with. I couldn't think of anything that Sam would have more trouble coming to terms with, and for good reason. 

Please read and review, let me know your thoughts on this story - good or bad.

The final story in this arc "M.E. myself and Sam" will be posted soon, and likewise is not suitable for young or sensitive readers.


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